Assassins
by Masterdramon
Summary: The Illuminati face a conundrum: King Arthur is foiling their plans at an alarming rate, yet those very plans depend on his survival. How to tackle an enemy you cannot afford to eliminate? Why, by targeting the one who stands at his side. Stranded in Paris and beset by three Assassins, a team-up with the Redemption Squad may be the only way to ensure Sir Griff sees his next sunset.
1. Episode I: The Fool

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode I: The Fool**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Previously on Gargoyles…**

"_Seventeen centuries," he said grimly. "And Merlin is part mortal. How can Arthur stand in Britain's hour of need without his wizard?"_

"_That is the way of life," Nimue said calmly._

"_Thanks to the power of the Grail," Brother Percival continued, ignoring her. "I will be there. But Merlin? We need to find a way to ensure he will live to see that day too. I'd offer him Grail Water, but he would refuse."_

"_For good reason, Percival," Nimue said. "That is the precious Living Water of the Almighty, not some trinket to be handed out on a whim."_

"_Just think about what we talked about the other day," Percival said. "As immortals, we must always be certain to look at the big picture, not just the smaller one."_

"_As you will, Fisher King," Nimue said, curtseying. "I shall consider your words carefully."_

_**~~From **_**Crystal Cave**_** by Gryphinwyrm7**_

[-]

**Hotel Cabal, New York City**

**September 27, 2000**

"Sixteen."

"Two."

A woman, clad in heavy white shawls that made it difficult to tell her age, reclined across a hotel bed. Her expression and tone were surprisingly relaxed, given the circumstances.

"It seems you've caught up with me at last," she said. "Took you long enough. You're slipping, _Duval._"

She spoke the name with the barest hint of bemusement.

Her visitor, meanwhile, only growled, a key gripped tightly in his cybernetic fist. Without it, even _he_ might have difficulty moving freely through this place.

"Not without considerable effort," he rumbled. "Took nearly two bloody months to track you down, after that fiasco in New Orleans. Did you honestly think we wouldn't notice? Or that we wouldn't put two and two together about what you've been hiding all these centuries?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Not particularly. That's why I ran off," she replied coolly. "Of course, you clearly didn't search very _hard._ I've been hiding here in plain sight for the better part of three weeks. Not my fault you ordered this hotel decommissioned after Mace's…_missteps._"

"Enough prattle," snapped Duval. "You know what I'm here for, Nimue. Where…is…_Merlin?_"

The woman lowered her hood slightly, so that he could see her deep brown eyes affixing him with a skeptical glare.

"Do you honestly think I'd be squatting in an abandoned Illuminati black site if I knew that?" she asked. "He came to my shop in search of his missing magic. But Morgana had already forced me out by the time he arrived. We never saw each other – nor have I any intention to do so."

Duval's mechanical eye twisted in its socket, its sickly green glow narrowing to a point.

"_Why_ do I believe you're not telling me the full story?" he said. "According to the Lady le Fay…"

"Oh, as if you can trust a single word out of _her_ mouth," Nimue interjected, waving a dismissive hand.

"I _trust_ that if there's one thing she wouldn't speak falsely about, it's the return of her greatest foe," continued Duval in a slightly raised voice, scowling at the interruption. "In any event, my point is this. Fourteen hundred years ago, you were given your first assignment: to ensure Merlin would live to see his pupil's return. At any cost."

"A task I most certainly accomplished," the sorceress reminded him. "Perhaps not in _precisely_ the same manner as instructed, but…"

"_And_ you insisted to me that it was impossible to track his location, once entombed," he added, talking over her. With every passing second, he grew visibly more livid. "That his Crystal Cave was capable of disappearing and reappearing all across the Earth, so that even _you_ weren't certain where he was at any given moment. But you've known all along, haven't you? You've had his _magic._"

"Yes, Duval. I lied," drawled Nimue. "I do that."

The cyborg didn't speak again for several moments, regarding her as if he was struggling very hard _not_ to seize her by the throat.

Eventually, he drew himself up to full height and said, "Come along. You'll need to visit Carbonek for a full debrief."

To this, she offered no reply but a slightly curled lip.

Growing even more incensed by her blasé attitude, Duval opened his mouth to say something else, but before any words came out she asked, "Did you ever wonder? Why I chose this rank, I mean. Back when they started giving them out in '76."

It went unspoken that both of them knew she meant _seventeen_-seventy-six.

Duval didn't entirely see the relevance of the question, but he responded, "I can't say I didn't find it curious. Chronologically, you were one of the first members of the Society. When it was still just a dream in the eye of a young Fisher King…who wanted to make things right."

"I very intentionally elected for a number toward the middle of the pack," she explained, now moving for the first time since he'd stormed into her hotel room. All she did, however, was sit up a little straighter, and begin fiddling absently with a sapphire-encrusted ring on her finger. "So that I would remain at arm's length from what you were becoming. I come and go from the Society as I please, and that's _not_ changing."

He jabbed an accusing, cybernetic finger at her.

"Listen here, you wretched little witch," said Duval sharply. "I don't ask for much from you, do I? The last time we even _spoke_ was the Second World War. You can go back to fleecing tourists for trinkets once you tell us what we need to know. I'll even _personally_ ensure protection from Morgana, if that's what you're worried about."

Nimue let out a short, humorless chuckle.

"A good sales pitch. And one that might work…on someone who didn't know you _half_ as well as I do," she told him. "But you know – on second thought, I'm wondering if I should've bought into the Upper Echelons after all. I wanted to preserve the option to leave any time I wanted but…_well_…"

She flicked her finger into the depths of her shawl, and pulled out a single tarot card: _The Fool,_ the first of the Major Arcana.

Then, with a mocking lilt in her voice, she finished, "Rank didn't stop your wife. Did it, Brother Percival?"

Before he could do anything to stop her, Nimue had already twirled the card around in her grip, and touched it to the ring on her other hand. Both the card and the jewel glowed a brilliant, blinding blue.

Then she was gone.

For a little while, Duval stood perfectly still. Then, he pulled back his mechanical fist, and punched it straight through the room's old-fashioned analog television.

Still seething, he pressed two fingers to his cybernetic left ear.

"Assemble the Upper Echelons," he ordered. "It's well past time we end this farce."

[-]

**Macduff Manor, New York City**

**September 28, 2000**

"As always, your hospitality is immensely appreciated," said Arthur Pendragon, leaning across his friend's patio banister and sipping from a tall cup of Nightstone's Coffee. "As is your assistance in returning us to Britain."

Macbeth waved off the thanks, before taking a deep swig from a bottle of _Dalriada's Dullahan Dark Ale._

"Bah, think nothing of it," he answered, mirroring his fellow king's pose. "I'm just sorry I wasn't able teh get yeh there sooner. Think I need ter fire my agent – daft fool added three cities onteh my book tour at the last second."

Arthur smiled. "It was for the best, I think," he remarked calmly. "It has been some time since I got to enjoy the company of Goliath's clan…well, but for brief snippets in the midst of saving the world. And my companions seem to have enjoyed their…what is the term? _Vay-cay-shin?_"

"Quite so, Your Majesty!" a cool, accented voice broke in. It belonged to his First Knight in this new era, Sir Griff, who descended from the manor's rooftop with all the nobility and grace of the heraldic beast he resembled. "Not like the opportunity really comes up all that much in our line of work, eh?"

He touched down between the two kings, offering each a bow of his head – though the one he offered Arthur was quite a bit lower. Rather than be offended, Macbeth let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Certainly a motley sort that wound up visiting from yer clan," he said. "But then…way I hear it, I suppose it wasn't exactly a _planned_ detour?"

That was quite an understatement. About two months prior, Merlin had used the standing stones beneath Knight's Spur to cast a scrying spell for the stolen parts of his magic, and inadvertently triggered a trap that brought them to the shores of New Orleans.

One battle with the Ultra-Pack and a series of Glamour Charm-assisted nighttime train rides later, and the haggard mix of gargoyles and humans – half-human in Merlin's case – who'd been caught in the accidental teleportation spell had finally reached Manhattan, where the Eyrie Building provided optimal cover for folks in their…

_Unique_ circumstances.

"Honestly, it's been more of a challenge tearing my mates _away_ from Goliath's clan than anything else," continued Griff. "Liam's busy swapping recipes with Broadway, Kelpie's been tinkering nonstop with Lex and Staghart on the new LexPhones – they're waterproof now, by the way, she made sure of that – and as for Lunette and Gnash…"

"Taking after his old man?" Macbeth guessed, with another chuckle.

Griff shrugged a shoulder. "Suppose that depends," he said. "Was Brooklyn just the right mix of 'smooth' and 'absolutely hopeless'?"

Macbeth frowned, considering this question.

"Well, I dinnae actually _know_ it was him at the time. Only figured it out in hindsight," he told the gargoyle. "But if that really _was_ him, and his very pregnant mate, back in the roaring twenties? 'Absolutely hopeless' dinnae even _begin_ teh cover it."

Griff's beak cracked a wry smile. "They're right cute together, in any event," he went on, his gaze now directed at the horizon, where the sun had just freshly set. Arthur didn't miss the hint of wistfulness in his knight's tone. "Last I saw, they were playing some kind of game involving little figurines and weird dice. Speaking of which…"

He strode over and rapped on the glass door separating them from the inside of the manor.

"Oi! Let's get a move on, alright?" he called out. "Hovercraft's leaving in ten!"

Even though he couldn't see the look on her face, Arthur could just about _hear_ the pout in Lunette's voice as she put away her LexPhone and whimpered, "But Gnash was just about to tell me about Fifth Edition, Griff! _Fifth!_ They only _just_ came out with Third!"

Macbeth let out one more, breathy chuckle. "A couple prototype models fer yer Knights teh test out in the field…and one more fer the London Clan teh share," he said. "Somehow I doubt it's a coincidence Amp gave it teh _Lunette_ teh take back."

"By the Dragon, now he's got _you_ doing it too. I was hoping Lex'd be an isolated case, but it seems the malignance is spreading," moaned Griff, turning his head back. A moment later, however, he broke into a grin. "But yeah, Stag's definitely the…_meddling_ type. Learned that right quick when I came back to Knight's Spur. Part of why I never mentioned…"

The gargoyle coughed, and didn't finish his sentence.

Arthur raised a brow, but he'd learned long ago that there were pitfalls in prying too deeply into his knights' private affairs.

Instead, he asked Macbeth, "Might I inquire about the flight arrangements? I hope we are not taking you too far out of your way."

"Oh, certainly not. I needed teh stop in Paris anyway, pick up some things from my home there," explained the former Scottish king. "Fleur's meeting up with us, and she'll escort yeh the rest of the way."

"Paris, hmm? Haven't actually gotten a chance to see Francia in _this_ era," spoke Merlin as he joined them out on the veranda, limping slightly as he passed a suddenly sour-faced Griff. While he'd mostly recovered from the "tainted" magic he'd inadvertently absorbed in New Orleans, the side-effects still lingered on occasion. "It's always been a land _steeped_ in magic. Remember when I took you there during your training, Wart?"

"I remember nearly getting killed by the Merovingians in the form of an oddly hued sea otter," replied Arthur. "Not, all in all, one of my favorite lessons. Still, I am fond of the country. After all, it sired some of my greatest Knights. Sir Bhors, and Sir Claudin, and…"

Now it was his turn to fall silent. Even all these centuries later, it was difficult for him to speak properly of Lancelot.

"_Ahem._ We should probably get going, Your Majesty. We'll want to reach Paris before our internal clocks decide to tick off," said Griff, a bit awkwardly. "I'll, err…go make sure the others are ready."

He pushed his way around the wizard, not apologizing when their forearms bumped against one another.

Merlin frowned deeply at the wordless brush-off. Looking off to the side, he murmured, "Yes, well…if we're leaving imminently, I'm going to attempt to scry for Nimue one last time. She's blocking my Sight – I'm sure of it. I _taught_ her that. But that also means she can't be too far away."

He left the patio as abruptly as he'd entered it, leaving the two kings alone once more.

"Guess yer little 'vay-cay-shin' hasn't worked any wonders fer _their_ relationship," Macbeth observed coolly.

"Fleur believes I need to be more decisive with them. But that has always been my greatest weakness," whispered Arthur. "In the heat of battle, or in a room crafting strategy? I am in my element. I do not hesitate. Yet, when I am alone with the people I love most…"

"Believe me," Macbeth interjected, his voice growing solemn. "I understand more than yeh can imagine."

King Arthur finished the last of his cappuccino, then offered a hand.

"Let it never be claimed I do not appreciate our friendship, Macbeth," he said. "It is one of the first things that Merlin taught me: that understanding, _true_ understanding, is the rarest magic of all. 'Tis the reason his training involved so much transformation into the shape of animals."

Macbeth polished off his beer, and accepted the handshake with a smile. "Likewise, Yer Majesty," he responded. "And now…let's make a date with the City of Lights."

What none of them – neither of the timeless kings, nor the gargoyle knight, nor the half-mortal mage – ever noticed was a tiny automaton flitting a short distance away, indistinguishable in nearly every respect from an ordinary housefly.

Apart from the logo, branded in the smallest possible font, across its chassis.

That of a golden cup.

[-]

**Castle Carbonek**

**September 28, 2000**

Seven television monitors descended around Duval, and the pitch-dark room was cast in the shimmering glow of white static.

One by one, a variety of faces appeared across five of the monitors.

"Two," he said, and the rest of the faces counted off in turn.

"Two."

"Three."

"Three."

"Four."

"Four."

Two representatives from each of the Upper Echelon ranks – he hadn't planned it that way, but there was some poetry in it.

Many of the single-digit members functioned as, for lack of a better term, "department heads," and the Fours were those with the broadest "departments" of all. It was a miracle just to have _two_ of them on the same call, given their schedules.

And as for the one missing Three…

Duval made a sound halfway between a hiss and a growl, before shaking his head once to clear it and addressing the monitors.

"I'm sure you all know why I've convened this conference," he began, using his mechanical knuckles to crack his organic ones. "When last we spoke, Arthur had just awakened into the modern world. Since then, however, the path he's chosen has proved…_concerning._"

"Sorry, but if I can ask a question," interrupted an African-American gentleman, with short gray hair and a crisp white uniform. "Will One not be joining us this evening?"

"Peredur is…_resting,_ at the moment," said Duval. "I'll be sure to brief him later, Quincy."

Quincy Hemings. His fellow in rank – a position always reserved for the member nearest the head of the most powerful nation on Earth. At present, that was the United States of America, making Quincy's position as the White House Chief Steward an invaluable asset.

No matter which president was in power, or which party they belonged to, the same man had been a part of their household and kitchen staff for over ninety years.

A corpulent man, whose features were half-obscured by a heavy cloud of cigar smoke, exhaled another deep puff.

"There's no doubt that our dear king has made…_remarkable_ progress," he declared. "Fourteen centuries with no leads on locating Excalibur – and by the time we become aware of his return, he's already claimed it. Just as long a period, spent with Merlin lost to us…and here, he simply turns up at Pendragon's side."

He paused a moment to let the smoke clear, then tilted his head to the side and added, "Although…I suppose we have 'Madame Serena' to thank for _that_ little intelligence deficit."

Mycroft Holmes. The Illuminati's left hand, in charge of information. Quite possibly the most astute deductive mind in human history – next to his late, celebrated brother – it was thanks to him that the "All Seeing Eye" was more than just the Society's symbol.

Duval was pretty sure he'd covered his tracks well, but if there was _anyone_ in the Illuminati poised to know that he'd met with Nimue the previous night…it was Mycroft.

The other Three on the call, a short-statured and battle-scarred man with Asian features, let out a thoughtful sigh.

"And, regretfully…Arthur is the worst kind of enemy. One who is quite acutely _needed,_" he said, tracing two calloused fingers down the slash marks that marred his eye. "Somehow or another, he _must_ persist another two centuries. Direct confrontation simply isn't an option, even _if_ it was the wisest course."

Tenzin Chung. It was the name he went by these days, in order to conduct business all across the Eurasian continent – lands he'd once conquered by very different means, and under a very different banner.

Born Temüjin, but better known by his imperial title: Genghis Khan.

If Mycroft was the Illuminati's left, "hidden" hand, then Tenzin was the right, "open" hand. He managed their considerable martial resources, with the expertise of a man who'd led hundreds of armies…mostly because he had.

"I have intelligence that may be of assistance," offered the lone female voice amongst the conference. It also happened to be the only one _not_ belonging to a human – but instead a serious-faced gargoyle, with slate-gray skin and long, black hair. "Courtesy of our colleague Vincent Leonardo. One of his drones recorded a conversation that included the good king's next destination. They've just departed for Paris, en-route to the London Clan's protectorate."

Tamora the Goth. Once of a now-lost offshoot of the Mayan gargoyle clan, she was now in charge of all affairs relating to the planet's First Race. She was hardly the _only_ gargoyle in the Illuminati, but was by far the highest-ranked – a position she held by dint of her keen mind, cold calculation, and acute understanding of the _true_ meaning of her species' calling.

It was the innate nature of gargoyles to protect, which often made them difficult to recruit; focused as they often were on protectorates that were small and tangible.

But Tamora understood that it was the balance of the entire _world_ that required protection…and that gave her the strength to act decisively, where others might not.

Duval raised his lone eyebrow. "I wasn't aware of this development. But it certainly hastens our timetable," he said. "In both New York and London, Arthur already possesses a _wealth_ of allies. And that renders him far more difficult to attend to. Additionally, while the London Clan's _existence_ has finally been revealed to us…their _location_ remains elusive. Or has that changed, Mycroft?"

The spymaster leaned back in his well-cushioned armchair, taking in another lengthy drag.

"Obviously, their continued survival represented an…_embarrassing_ hole in my intelligence network," lamented Mycroft, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly – like there was a joke only _he_ fully understood. "My best and brightest are working to rectify that now. But I agree with what I assume is your point: Paris would be the ideal location to 'deal' with Pendragon, howsoever we might choose to do so."

"And yet, as stated, we cannot harm _him_ directly. It would defeat the entire purpose of our very _existence_ as a Society," added Tenzin coolly. "Nor Merlin. We have placed far too many resources into the preservation of both men – early awakening or not."

"That's the question, ain't it, boy?" Quincy asked. Despite the fact that he was younger than Duval by well over a _millennium,_ he regarded the cyborg like a stern grandfather. "How do you put a stop to someone…without stopping them _too_ much?"

Duval folded his hands together, lacing metal and flesh, and took a deep breath.

"All of this is a matter of timescale and degree, more than absolutes," he told his fellows. "We _wanted_ Arthur to find Excalibur. To reunite with Merlin. To bring together a new Round Table."

"But on our terms," said Tamora. "And following _our_ schedule."

"Quite. Nevertheless, the point shouldn't be to _stop_ Arthur Pendragon," replied Duval. "But rather to…_slow him up,_ if you will. His progress must be restricted to a pace we can manage. Guide, nurture. To ensure he is still capable of leading the world when it needs him most."

"Yet, that still leaves the most critical of questions," Mycroft remarked pointedly. "_How?_ Where is the point, the Achilles heel, where he can be made to bend…_without_ being forced to break?"

Duval's mechanical eye whirred in place, taking in the faces of all five of his "colleagues."

Then in calm, crisp tones, he answered, "It is simple. We target the one factor now, which was _not_ present in his first rise."

He pressed a button on the console controlling their conference. On every one of their screens appeared a high-resolution photograph.

That of a green-hued gargoyle, his beak no doubt calling out a witty quip as he blasted an Iron Clan robot with his lightning gun.

[-]

**Redemption HQ, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"This is everything we know about aer target," said Hunter, gesturing to the projector screen. "He's gone by numerous aliases, but the one he seems tae prefer is 'Fantômas.'"

There was a heavy beat of silence. Then, Fang raised a furry arm, though he didn't wait to be called on before speaking.

"Okay…I'm gonna be the bad guy here and say what everyone else is _thinking,_ even if they won't spit it out loud," drawled the mutate. "Is that a bio or a piece of Swiss cheese?"

Indeed, the information on the screen included no pictures, and as for the text…

_**Real Name:**__ Unknown_

_**Age:**__ Unknown_

_**DOB:**__ Unknown_

_**Sex:**__ M (?)_

_**Height:**__ Unknown_

_**Weight:**__ Unknown_

_**Blood Type:**__ Unknown_

_**Skin Tone:**__ Unknown_

_**Nationality:**__ French (?)_

"So in conclusion, he's a bloke from France. _Maybe,_" added Dingo, crossing his arms as he slouched in his conference room chair. "Hate to agree with Fang, but that _really_ ain't a lot to go on, sheila."

"There's a reason faer that," she said, flipping to the next slide in the briefing. This one contained a wide range of photographs, each of them featuring a different, nondescript individual. "Fantômas is a master of disguise, capable of impersonating just about any man, woman, aer child near-flawlessly. No one's ever seen him without at _least_ one mask, and despite being wanted by at least twenty nations _and_ Interpol, he innae ever once been taken intae custody."

"Logical, then, that the task falls to us," declared Yama, without judgment. "It is not the first 'impossible' task we've been handed, and I doubt it will be the last."

"**QUERY, HUNTER?**" asked Matrix, its "neck" stretching out and twisting around its partner. "**DATABASE SEARCHES FOR THE TERM 'FANTÔMAS' RETURN LITERARY RECORDS FROM THE EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY. AUTHORED BY FRENCH WRITERS MARCEL ALLAIN AND PIERRE SOUVESTRE: **_**FANTÔMAS, **_**1911\. **_**JUVE CONTRE FANTÔMAS, **_**1911\. **_**LE MORT QUI TUE,**_** 1911\. **_**L'AGENT SECRET,**_** 1911\. **_**UN ROI PRIS**_**…**"

"Okay, pal, think we get it," Dingo cut it off, patting the construct awkwardly upon its glimmering surface.

He wasn't sure what he marveled at more – Matrix effecting a technically perfect but distinctly unromantic French accent, or simply how many books those blokes had managed to produce in 1911 alone.

"All true. But what the public _dinnae_ know is that the 'Fantômas' novels were based on a real-life criminal. Maybe a bit embellished, but he existed," explained Hunter. "Now, the connection between the _modern_ Fantômas and the original is less clear. He might just be a copycat, aer deranged fan. Aer…hell, who knows. Maybe he's a son aer grandson. It innae like the first one was ever caught, either."

"I am curious, Hunter," said Yama. "Is there a reason we have been tasked with this assignment at this particular point in time? Obviously, it would be preferable that this villain's escape from justice be brought to a swift end. Nevertheless…"

"Yeh'd like tae know the urgency. Fair enough," she guessed, offering the Japanese gargoyle a nod. "Fantômas' MO includes theft, murder, corporate espionage – he innae picky. But he famously eschews payment faer his 'services.' The crimes _themselves_ are his compensation, so he only accepts contracts he finds interesting."

"Define 'interesting,' blondie," Fang replied dryly.

Hunter changed to the next slide, and Dingo had to force back the urge to vomit.

"Fantômas is a surrealist. He specializes in elaborate schemes and death-traps, which defy any sense of reason or explanation," she answered. "Once, he was hired to steal the Star of Arabia from a British museum. By the time he was done, every exhibit in the _building_ had been repurposed into an enormous, incomprehensible delivery system faer the jewel. And when it was triggered, it simultaneously did…well, _this,_ tae every one of the guards."

She gestured at a photo that was too gruesome for words. Even Fang didn't have a joke to offer.

"Crime, up tae and including murder, is an art form tae him. But that also means he follows a set of rules – even if they might seem incomprehensible tae us," continued the masked woman. "Last night, an associate of our employer received _this_ in the mail."

Hunter pulled a small card out of her pocket and placed it on the table. It was decorated with nothing but a small, blue domino mask.

"This is the same 'employer,' mind, we still know absolutely zip about, right?" said Dingo with a scowl. "Just wanna double check."

"Fantômas doesn't always leave calling cards. If he does, I believe it means he considers his current target a…_challenge,_" she went on, as if she hadn't been interrupted. "We don't know when aer where he intends tae strike, but yeh can bet it'll be soon."

"Can you at least tell us who this target _is?_" asked the Australian mercenary, gripping his temples and groaning in exasperation.

Hunter stared right into his eyes, her mouth a thin line. For several seconds, no one in the briefing room moved.

Finally, she declared, "Her name is Dolores. That's all yeh really need tae know. Now, suit up. I want us in the air in five."

[-]

**Castle Carbonek**

**September 28, 2000**

"I see now why you were so insistent I join this call, old friend," said Tamora. "As you know, any action against gargoyles, whether an individual or an entire clan, requires my express approval."

"It's certainly not my first choice in dealing with the situation. Valorous, clever, possessed of firsthand knowledge of Arthur's activities – he'd make an ideal recruit, if I thought there was the _slightest_ chance he'd say yes," Duval responded, with a lamenting shake of the head. "As it is…I can think of no more efficient way to cut Arthur off at the legs."

Her lip curled upward. "Oh, you misunderstand. I'm not disagreeing," she told him lightly. "Honestly, I had the same thought. Balancing cost and benefit, his death is the obvious choice."

Tenzin chuckled, a rough and gravelly sound.

"Then it seems we have a motion, and a second," he remarked, tipping a scratched-up palm to his screen. "Any objections to be heard?"

The rest of the Upper Echelons were silent.

"In that case…" added Mycroft, the cigar smoke now so thick it completely blocked his face from view. "We turn to the question of method."

"Yes, about that," said Duval, before turning to the one member whose input hadn't yet been heard. "Mustapha, I'd like to clarify one thing. Is the 'nuclear option' still on the table?"

If one wasn't familiar, they could be forgiven for assuming the last monitor was displaying a large bundle of cloth. But upon Duval's summon, the robes began to shift and unfurl, revealing the man within.

He was, quite possibly, the oldest-looking man in the entire world. His skin was dry, desiccated, corpselike; clinging to the bone with nary the barest trace of fat or muscle. Nevertheless, his robes were immaculate, as was the burnt-crimson turban that ordained his head.

Two hands emerged from his billowy sleeves, the skeletal fingers lacing together. Upon each finger rested an ornate ring – nine with differently colored jewels, and a signet ring displaying the Society's emblem.

"Unfortunately, it is not," he answered, in a voice as dry and withered as a crypt. "In observance of the Gathering, I was forced to…_relinquish,_ all of my djinn. Though not without preconditions, of course. In a century or so, they'll return with reports of Avalon herself – _more_ than a worthwhile trade, for a brief taste of freedom."

Mustapha Badroulbadour. As Tamora managed the affairs of the planet's First Race, Mustapha was charged with keeping tabs on the Third.

Thanks to Oberon's Law, it was all but impossible for one of the Children to take a place among the Upper Echelons _personally,_ but Mustapha was the next-best thing. An accomplished sorcerer, his specialty was in the containment and binding of Children to appropriate Vessels. Indeed, it was probably accurate to say that he knew more about such spells than any mage alive – save John Dee, who didn't play well with the Illuminati.

It was a lifelong fascination, stemming from the time when, as a lad in China, he'd used two bound djinn to claim his fortune, marry a princess, and secure a throne of his own. Little surprise that, in his twilight years, he'd decided to learn how to do it himself.

Not that it was any kind of easy feat, of course. Binding spells were tricky business, and often required a pinch of the user's own life force. Hence why, despite being frozen in his mid-seventies thanks to the Grail…Mustapha _looked_ as if he was pushing one hundred.

"Of course, even if I _did_ have a few in reserve, I think they would be an ill fit for _this_ particular mission," continued the sorcerer, now rubbing absently at one of his jeweled rings. Its stone was a brilliant, blood-red ruby. "Magic is a potent force, capable of untold wonders. But its ways are seldom…_subtle._"

"Agreed. It is best this matter be resolved as quietly as possible," said Tenzin. "Which means there is only one Illuminatus I trust to carry it out."

"The Old Man of the Mountain," whispered Mustapha, through a strained, rattling breath. "This is an assignment for Hassan-i Sabbah."

Simply speaking the name brought quiet across the Upper Echelons. They all seemed to be considering this proposition carefully.

Tamora was the first to speak up. "It's been some years since we've asked dear Hassan to solve a problem of _this_ magnitude," she stated coolly. "When was the last time you gave him an assignment directly, Duval? Kennedy?"

"No, Oswald wasn't one of ours. Funnily enough, that's the one where every single 'shadowy conspiracy' theory is _dead wrong,_" Quincy told her. "Not that we didn't take full advantage of the opportunity, of course."

He gestured humbly to the pin on his lapel, designating him the Chief Steward. A position he'd gained on the very first day of the Lyndon B. Johnson Administration.

"The most recent instance I'm aware of was Benigno Aquino Jr. of the Philippines in 1983," explained Mycroft, his tone dry and informational. "As I recall, you were off-the-grid most of that year, Lady Tamora."

"Enough of this," Duval said shortly. He let out a deep breath. "Unless I'm very much mistaken, it seems we are in agreement. I'll reach out to Hassan personally."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Quincy, clapping his gloved hands together. "Don't know about the rest of you, but I've had _tons_ of work pile up while we've been chit-chatting. Dinner menu for October needs final approval, and Socks just knocked over a twenty grand vase, and then there's this matter in Florida I apparently need to take a look at…"

"A moment, if you please," Mustapha interjected, his spindly fingers rapping upon the desk in front of him, one after the other. "One question more."

Duval frowned, but murmured, "Speak."

"Let it never be said I doubt my colleague's abilities. Or those of whomever he'll choose to employ," the sorcerer went on. "Nevertheless, Duval…do we have any sort of Plan B?"

The cyborg leaned forward, the tips of his unmatched fingers touching, as he considered this question.

"Yes, I do," he eventually said, without looking any of his compatriots in the eyes. "But if it comes to that…a few genies tearing Paris apart will seem _far_ more merciful by comparison."

[-]

**Above the Atlantic Ocean**

**September 29, 2000**

Macbeth's hovercraft was a hive of activity as it made its speedy journey across the Atlantic.

Leomaris, naturally, had gravitated to its vastly understocked kitchen. Despite Macbeth's warnings that his usual in-flight meals consisted of "whatever-innae-spoiled-yet-sandwiches," the half-aquatic gargoyle had insisted upon doing his best to throw _something_ together.

Not that Kelpie was helping very much, as the high-tech hovercraft had very quickly turned her into the proverbial hatchling in a candy store, and she kept trying to drag her "rookery cousin" away from the mess to check out this-and-that doodad.

It was a desperate struggle in which there were no winners and no losers, save Lunette's giggle reflex.

Outside of observing their dance of mutual exasperation, though, the equine gargoyle found she had little else to do. Now that they were separated, Lunette was beginning to realize just how much she'd gotten used to having Nashville around the last two months.

Sure, she had dozens of rookery siblings back home – Nix, Bouc, Cornelia, Falcor – but she didn't "click" with any of them the way she did with Gnash.

The two had spent the past few weeks simply hanging around and having fun. They'd swapped stories, watched through all the old _Doctor Who_ tapes Staghart had brought over from London (Gnash kept sighing whenever the picture got choppy and making incomprehensible asides like, "By the Dragon, I can't _wait_ for Net Flicks"), and played more rounds of _Mario Kart_ on Lexington's N64 than she could count.

Then, one night, he'd introduced her to _Dungeons & Dragons_ – an ideal game, he said, for when you had no idea when you'd next be in an era with electricity. Time had sort of gotten away from them after that. They were _still_ taking their turns via LexPhone, whenever a spare moment popped up.

Not that Lunette felt any shame in that. On the contrary, she was extraordinarily proud of her Level 47 half-elf ranger.

Unfortunately, he'd gone off to patrol with his rookery parents a few hours ago, and she had enough sense not to bother him while he was fighting crime. She'd even joined him a couple times back in Manhattan, though they'd never encountered anything more dangerous than a purse-snatcher.

Which meant she had nothing to do _now_ except wander the hovercraft, looking for a way to make herself useful. She turned away from Liam and Kelpie, now embroiled in a far-too-spirited debate over whether horseradish counted as a condiment (and why in the world that actually _mattered_) and left to explore further.

Merlin was still holed up in a locked room, as he had been the entire trip, and presumably Macbeth was busy piloting. But she soon found Griff and Arthur toward the rear of the vehicle, cloistered around a corkboard.

A corkboard covered with at least _fifty_ colored-coded notecards.

"Based upon the Lady Maza's testimony, I cannot be certain one way or another whether this 'Doctor' they once faced is among the Illuminati," said Arthur, his voice somewhat distant as he tapped at a yellow notecard. "But it is a strong possibility. Water from the Grail would account for his survival, absent a physical body."

Griff gestured toward another card, this one red.

"We know that 'Shi Yang' dame _has_ to be one. No way she could've found us so quick otherwise," he mused, one talon scratching thoughtfully at the underside of his beak. "Think she's a Seven? Fleur says O'Malley's one, and Brooklyn confirmed Sinbad. All sailors or pirates. Are they really going for some groan-worthy 'seven seas' joke?"

Their conversation continued in this vein for some time, becoming less and less comprehensible by the moment. Eventually, Lunette found herself clearing her throat.

"Umm…sorry if I'm interrupting," she mumbled nervously. "I was just wondering what you guys were doing. But, erm…you don't have to tell me if you don't to…"

Neither of the warriors looked annoyed, however. Griff offered her a smile and explained, "No worries. Just trying to put together everything we know at this point about the Happy Numbers Club."

"The Lady Blanchefleur has shared a great deal about her former compatriots. But even more, she keeps close to her chest. I cannot entirely blame her for that," added Arthur. "So we have been combining her intelligence with information from various allies. Your clan. Goliath's. Macbeth. Lord Dugan of Ireland. We still only possess a few pieces of the puzzle…but it is a start."

Lunette nodded, before noticing something a little odd about the board. While most of the notecards were bunched up close to each other, strings or tape used to convey their connections, there was a set of green cards that were clumped off to the side.

Pointing, she asked, "What're those for?"

"Names Fleur's mentioned in passing, but that we haven't had time to dig deep into," said Griff, peering at the names on the cards. "Yeah…none of these are ringing a bell. Hildegard Hellstrom. Elizabeth Mantle. Hassan-i Sa…"

"Wait, hold on! _That_ one!" Lunette suddenly exclaimed, cutting him off. But she was too excited to care about rudeness. "I know it!"

Griff's eyebrow ridges tilted up in surprise. "Wait…you do?" he replied, clearly caught off-guard.

"Goliath was reading a book about him. I remember because he told off Gnash once for being too loud, after I hit him with a Blue Shell," Lunette told the pair. "The title was…oh gosh, what _was_ it? Something like…wait, I remember now. _Alamut._"

Arthur and his knight shared a long look. "Perhaps we should have asked more questions of Goliath while we had the chance," murmured the king. "Or else procure our own copy of this book."

"I didn't read it myself, so I can't help much. But I _did_ see the blurb on the back cover," she declared, happy for the chance to be at least a _little_ useful. "The author was…erm…Slovenian, I think. But it's set in the Middle East. About an old human, who tries to take down a corrupt government…"

Lunette took a deep breath.

"Using an army of assassins."

[-]

**Alamut, Iran**

**September 29, 2000**

The novel _Alamut,_ by French-Slovenian author Vladimir Bartol, was indeed based in true history. True…if not entirely accurate.

It told of a brilliant and charismatic scholar of the Nizari Ismā'īli – a branch of Shi'a Islam – who'd led his people in revolt against the oppressive Great Seljuq Empire, which held in its grip vast swathes of Central Asia. Though the men he led were outnumbered and outmatched, the scholar knew that if they could simply secure a strong enough base, they'd be free to spread their teachings – and their revolution – far and wide.

He set his sights on Alamut Castle, a remote fortress high in the mountains along the Caspian Sea. Alamut was believed to be impregnable, its position all but impervious to conventional military attack.

So instead, the scholar moved in secret, spending months moving his men into the villages near Alamut a few at a time. He himself infiltrated the castle in various disguises: a schoolteacher, a soldier, a cook. He made allies and collaborators out of the castle staff, one by one, until even the deputy to Alamut's lord secretly pledged his loyalty.

When the time came to strike, it was swift and nearly bloodless. Alamut's lord was ejected from the castle, his life spared and an armful of gold to placate him. The castle was captured, and the era of the Alamut State began.

The scholar's followers went on to replicate this miracle across the Fertile Crescent, claiming around two hundred fortresses all throughout Syria and Persia. Though seemingly isolated, these castles were united by a secret intelligence network so vast, the nation-within-nations could even mint its own currency.

For over one and a half centuries, the Alamut State stood firm, offering places of refuge for the Nizari to take shelter from their enemies – both foreign and domestic. To a distant observer, this may have seemed the result of their defensive military strategy, holding firm in their fortresses and taking few risks.

But the truth, as both the Seljuqs and the invading Christian Crusaders would come to learn, was far bloodier.

Amidst the scholar's followers was select individuals, trained to operate in secret and strike without warning. Skilled in disguise, espionage, and psychological warfare, these "hidden" warriors selected their targets carefully, using one death to decapitate entire armies. Often, they would attack brazenly, in full view of witnesses, to maximize the impact to their enemies.

Generals, Viziers, Caliphs...even occupying Counts and Kings. None were safe from these killers' blades. If they were spared, it was because their humiliation was a far deadlier blow to morale than their lives.

Inevitably, rumors began to spread. That to rear such potent and unstoppable murderers, the scholar must've used trickery, even sorcery. They claimed he drugged his young recruits with _hashish,_ a potent form of cannabis, to remove their fear and bind them to his will.

It was unclear whether those rumors were the superstitions of panicked Crusaders, or if they contained a grain of truth. But the retreating Crusaders, terrified by an enemy that could seemingly appear from anywhere, strike in the blink of an eye, and be gone just as quickly, carried stories home for all to hear.

Stories of the fearsome Order of the _Hashashin_ – a word which would mutate in the Western vernacular, until "assassin" became synonymous with slayers of leaders and tyrants.

And stories of their master…a devoted scholar and missionary of Islam, who ruled a nation of secrets and shadows, despite never once stepping foot outside of Alamut in thirty-five years.

They called him the Elder One. The Old Man of the Mountain. The First Assassin.

Hassan-i Sabbah.

But what the novel didn't deign to tell…

Was what happened to Alamut _afterward._

By the year 1256, tensions between the Alamut State and the Mongol Empire had reached a boiling point. Under the Great Khan Möngke – grandson of Genghis – the Mongols swept through and conquered vast swathes of Muslim lands. The Nizari were an obstacle he would not countenance.

In the face of such overwhelming odds, one Nizari fortress after the next fell to the armies of Möngke and his brother, Hülegü Khan. Eventually, to spare his people from total slaughter, the last Imam to sit upon Alamut's throne, Rukn al-Dīn Khurshāh, surrendered the castle to the invading hordes.

The Mongols made short work dismantling Alamut, tearing away its grand stone walls and burning its famed library to cinders. These days, its charred ruins were in development by the Iranian government as a tourist attraction.

That's where the "official" history ended.

No source mentioned that Genghis Khan and Hassan-i Sabbah, both thought long-dead at the time the Alamut State fell, were both very much alive. Or that the conflict between their empires had been orchestrated between them from the very start – and manipulated by their hands at nearly every step.

And of course, there was no mention of the regular "drinking nights" the two men had engaged in across the centuries since…nor of the crystal-clear water that was both warlords' preferred poison.

The Mongol armies had, indeed, reduced "Alamut Castle" to rubble that fateful day. But the _true_ Alamut, hidden beneath its founding stones…

Remained in operation to this day.

It was in this underground fortress that an elderly man could be found, humming lightly as he tended to a vast, hydroponic garden. He'd always been extraordinarily fond of horticulture, and while such a clinical method lacked the elegance and grace of a more "traditional" garden, the tradeoff was a necessary one.

After all, like him, these plants were never destined to again see the sun's rays.

The man was dark-skinned, with a chalk-white mustache and beard, both neatly trimmed. He dressed humbly, in simple, white robes, and topped with a heavy head-scarf.

If one didn't know any better, it would've been easy to miss the sixteen different weapons he kept hidden on his person.

Just as the old man was about to prune a withered leaf from a beautiful poppy flower, however, a telephone on the opposite wall began to ring. Pausing in his humming and putting down the pruning shears, he ambled his way toward the receiver.

It was specialized device, designed to work even hundreds of miles underground. Only one person on Earth knew the number.

"Five. Hello, Duval," he said, upon picking up. His accent in English was a bit stilted, but he preferred it to hearing Duval's Farsi. "I trust you have a new assignment for me?"

He listened for a while to the words spoken by his old friend. There were a great deal of them, but that didn't especially bother the old man. Before anything else, after all, he was a teacher.

Eventually, once Duval had explained the entire situation, he responded, "My, that certainly _is_ a conundrum. This won't be a simple operation. I'll need to send my absolute best. And…several of them, I think. A task of this import warrants redundancy."

He paused, as Duval added a few more things. The old man half-listened, his mind already whirring with possibilities.

Eventually, he told the cyborg, "Yes…I think I've figured out who I need to assign. One is already in Paris. If he cannot finish the job – and it would be the _first_ failure in his illustrious career – then he can delay long enough for the others to arrive."

Duval said something that made the old man chuckle gallantly.

"On the contrary, my friend. I know _very_ well the folly of overconfidence," he spoke coolly. "Nevertheless, I hold all my _Hashashin_ to certain…_standards._ One way or another, before he sees the next dusk…this gargoyle _will_ be dead. After all Duval, you know what I say. Mine is the world of smoke and shadows, and in it…"

The lips of Hassan-i Sabbah, the First Assassin, curled beneath his mustache.

Then he offered what were, according to Bartol's account, his very last words: "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

With that, the Old Man of the Mountain hung up the receiver, and then…

Began making some calls of his own.

[-]

**Apartment #24601, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"_Trente-cinq._"

[-]

**Diogenes Club, London**

**September 29, 2000**

"Eighteen."

[-]

**Atsuta Shrine, Nagoya**

**September 29, 2000**

"Ten."

[-]

**Hotel Marseillaise, Casablanca**

**September 29, 2000**

It was almost a joke that she should find refuge here. The city practically synonymous with intense but doomed romance.

But for the moment, Nimue needed to hide from both the Society and Merlin's Sight, and she could afford to do so in luxury. Telling fortunes for New Orleans tourists was a remarkably lucrative business.

Now ensconced in a suite that could've fit her room at the Hotel Cabal five times over, she spread a brand-new tarot deck across the sheets of her king-sized bed. It was the one thing she'd asked for at the front desk, and while it was certainly an…_atypical_ request, she'd tipped well enough for the concierge not to ask questions.

This deck wasn't nearly as potent as the one she'd bound together with her mentor's magic, but it would serve her well enough. She'd been divining the future for fourteen hundred years, after all.

Allowing the "hum" of magic in her ring to guide her hand, she selected three cards and flipped them over in turn…

And very nearly fell off the bed.

**The Hanged Man**

**Strength**

**The High Priestess**

"Oh God…no…" she said, hands folding over her mouth.


	2. Episode II: The Hanged Man

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode II: The Hanged Man**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Apartment #24601, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Dolores Herrera had seen enough in her life that being the target of an assassin barely warranted a raised eyebrow.

A short, plump Hispanic woman, she'd served as personal assistant to all manners of high-maintenance personalities: CEOs, film directors, rock stars. She knew when to say yes to increasingly absurd demands, and when very _emphatically_ to say no. 

It was part of why she'd been hand-picked by "the Director" – she knew his real name, of course, but there seemed little point in using it when she only ever called him "sir" anyway – to serve as his secretary, back when he'd fallen into his current job with the U.S. government.

His formal title was something like "Head of Supramaterial Affairs;" basically, a bureaucrat responsible for monitoring "weird stories" (psychic powers, ghosts, and the like) to determine if there was any "there" there.

An innocuous and insignificant position, which'd suddenly become _very_ relevant on October 25, 1996.

Since that fateful night, Dolores' portfolio of tasks had…_expanded,_ to say the least. Since the Director was a busy man, it sometimes fell to her to serve as liaison for his squad's field leader, Robyn Canmore.

That was why she was in Paris now – staying, rent-free, in the apartment of her boss' mysterious superior, Monsieur Le Maire. A very generous bonus on top of her already considerable salary, all things considered…

Although as the entire apartment was rapidly filling with sand, right now she rather wished they'd simply booked her a Marriott.

She'd have run for the door, or at least called for help, _hours_ ago, if only she was capable of moving. Unfortunately, the trap had been sprung the second she walked in, and now Dolores found herself strung up like a piñata, her limbs contorted in a very intricate and uncomfortable pose.

"You know, if you really _wanted_ to kill me…" she said dryly. "I'd have preferred you put a bullet between my eyes and get it over with."

"Ah, but zen where would ze artistry be?" replied a woman who looked uncannily like her landlady. Still, as said landlady was eighty-five and mostly blind, Dolores had her doubts. "Would you ask Da Vinci, hunched over ze _Mona Lisa,_ to simply 'get it over with'?"

"Considering Da Vinci's alive and tinkering with automatons in New York? Probably," Dolores snapped back. "Cut the bullshit, Fantômas. I know it's you, and I know who you work for. Frankly, the fact that _I_ was worth a hit is actually almost flattering."

Her "landlady" smiled broadly, in a way that the sourpuss of an old bat never did. When "she" spoke again, though the voice didn't change in the slightest, there was something about its tone which struck her as decidedly masculine.

"And now you force me to break _du personnage!_ I am not sure whether to be impressed or wounded," he lamented. "But fear not! You are _not_ necessarily doomed, _ma chère!_ Zere may be an opportunity yet to save yourself!"

He shoved a remote with a single switch into her left hand, the only part of her body that could remotely move freely.

"You are indeed correct zat ze contract specified only _your_ death, Madame 'errera," said Fantômas, as casually as if he was describing the weather. "But that just seemed far too…_simple._ If I allowed a substandard work into _ma galerie,_ it would devalue ze rest of my art. So I went through effort and expense _considérable_…"

Then, from the landlady's woolen camisole, he pulled out a small photograph and waved it in front of her face.

Dolores took in a sharp gasp, and for the first time, looked genuinely frightened.

Fantômas chuckled and, quite unnecessarily, finished, "…To locate _ton fils éloigné._"

"Don't you touch a _hair_ on his head!" she bellowed, redoubling her struggle against the restraints, though to little avail.

"I am afraid _zat_ is up to you, _ma chère,_" he explained coolly. The contrast between his appearance and tone of voice grew more disturbing by the moment. "Simply flip zat switch…and I shall vanish, like _le Chat Cheshire._ Of course, in exchange, ze _explosifs_ I arranged around 'is 'ome shall create _un spectacle magnifique._"

Dolores glared at the disguised assassin. "You may dress things up like you're some kind of 'tortured artist,' but call this what it is. It's sadism, pure and simple," she said. "And whether or not I get out of here alive, I'm going to make _sure_ you regret it."

She was acutely aware that the rising sand was now less than half a meter from her mouth.

Fantômas looked like he was about to say something in reply, but at that moment, a ringing sound began to echo through the apartment. Shock spread over his face – well, the face he was _borrowing_ – as he tapped two fingers to what must've been an unseen earpiece.

Then he did something even more unexpected. He took both hands, buried them in the wrinkled folds of his neck, and pulled upward.

The skin peeled away like a Halloween mask, exposing just a little bit of his "true" face, though he turned away before Dolores could get a closer look. All she could tell about the flesh surrounding his mouth was that it was ghostly pale, and devoid of any distinguishing features.

And the fact that, with _just_ that portion uncovered, and the rest of his visage that of a doddering old lady…

This was an image that'd haunt her dreams for years to come. Assuming she survived the night, of course.

There was another shift accompanying the partial "unmasking." His body language suddenly grew stiff and rigid, and when he spoke again, his voice followed suit. Where before he'd delivered English with a thick French accent, now he reverted solely to the latter tongue – but coldly, robotically, with all the passion of a text-to-speech software.

"_Trente-cinq,_" he stated, as if reading off a serial number. There was a pause, presumably as the unseen caller gave their response. "_La tâche est presque complète, mon Maître. Quelques moments de plus et…_"

He stopped speaking immediately, as if he'd been cut off. Meanwhile, Dolores' mind raced. She was entirely fluent in French, of course, among eight other languages – so who was it that Fantômas would call "Master"?

There was only one possibility. He's spoken a number at the beginning: thirty-five. Meaning the mystery caller _must_ be…

"_D'accord. J'accepte la nouvelle cible,_" said Fantômas. "_Je n'échouerai pas._"

With that, he tapped at his ear again, and then pulled his mask back down into place. The moment he was again fully covered, his posture and demeanor reverted to that of the elderly landlady, hunched over and squinting.

The transformation was so quick, one could've missed it in the space of a single blink.

"You are in luck, _ma chère._ As of zis _moment,_ your contract 'as been cancelled," he told her. "_La Dame Fortune_ smiles upon you! For now Fantômas 'as been tasked with…_la proie bien plus intéressante._"

Dolores stared at the assassin, gape-mouthed, as he began undoing the restraints that suspended her from the ceiling. The moment her arm was free, she took a wild swing at his face – but he caught it expertly, and in a single move, disarmed her of what she was holding.

The detonator he'd provided her. He stared at it for a few moments, and then almost casually, flipped the switch.

"_Nooooooooooooooooooooo!_" she screamed, with a shrillness the normally stoic woman had never heard in her own voice.

Fantômas, however, merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I 'ave never even met your boy, Madame 'errera. _Une déception necessaire,_" he whispered, now holding her much tighter as he continued to free her. "Ideally, you would 'ave thrown ze switch, and accomplished nothing…save ze knowledge zat your own life mattered far more to you zan 'is. You were tempted, _non?_ I could see it in your eyes."

He tapped his leg, almost completely buried in sand, against the unseen floor. The grains immediately stopped rising.

"Zis is no ordinary sand, _tu vois,_" continued the criminal. "Once entombed, it would freeze your _visage_ in place for all _éternité._ Such beauty…I can 'ardly imagine. A perfect display _du désespoir abject._"

"You wanted to trick me into thinking I'd killed my own son…for _that?_" she spat, struggling in vain as he tossed away the last of the wire. Despite the apparent fragility of his disguised limbs, his grip was like a vice. "You're sicker than even the reports say."

"It would be, as you say…_l'art de la performance._ I cannot expect it to be understood by _un philistin,_" said Fantômas. "And now…_au revoir, _Madame 'errera. The next piece for _ma galerie_ awaits."

She felt, rather than witnessed, his departure. One moment his arms were gripping tightly around her body, pinning her arms like a straightjacket – and the next she was free, and tumbling down into the pool of sand below.

Dolores didn't know for how long she blacked out. It could've been for two minutes, or two hours.

All she knew was that when she opened her eyes again, she was being suspended upon what appeared to be silvery liquid, fashioned into the shape of a gurney.

A featureless "head" emerged from the gurney's surface and declared, "**THIS INDIVIDUAL'S VITAL SIGNS ARE IN THE TYPICAL RANGE FOR A HUMAN FEMALE OF HER AGE AND BODY TYPE. BEYOND SOME SUPERFICIAL LACERATIONS, SHE IS UNHARMED.**"

Other people might've found this sight somewhat alarming. As it was, Dolores simply turned her head until she found the rest of the Redemption Squad, crammed awkwardly into the apartment's kitchen. Three other copies of Matrix were roaming the place, using arms in the shape of vacuum cleaners to siphon away the sand.

"You're late," she said, narrowing her eyes at their field commander. "But we don't have time to dwell. Your target's trail is getting cold."

"I'm surprised he let yeh live," murmured Hunter, squeezing – with great effort – past Yama and Fang. "I've never heard of Fantômas abandoning one of his 'projects' halfway through befaer."

"It appears he's found another. One he called 'far more interesting prey,'" Dolores related coldly. "I'm not eager to find out what counts as 'interesting' to a monster like him."

[-]

**Café de Bayard, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

_Le Café de Bayard,_ while far from the most luxurious restaurant in Paris, had two great advantages over its competitors.

One was that it was open twenty-four hours a day, offering a magnificent view of the Upper Seine all throughout the night. The other was that, despite the folkloric reference, it was completely unconnected to the Illuminati – a harder metric to clear for _haute cuisine_ than one might think.

Which was why, at just past four in the morning, Lady Blanchefleur and her assistant were tucking into a _very_ early breakfast.

"I saw the latest spread in _Vogue,_" Fleur said conversationally, as she raised a small piece of omelet to her mouth. "Inspired work. You're doing magnificently, Sam."

The other woman lowered the scone she'd been about to bite into and looked askance, flushing a bit.

"As always, the chair at _Sangral_ remains yours for the asking, _madame._ As far as I'm concerned, I'm still only keeping your seat warm," she muttered, deflecting. "And honestly, I'll never have your eye for this sort of thing. Five centuries on, and I don't think I'll ever be fully comfortable in anything but armor."

"Which would make you an ill fit to manage any fashion company _except_ mine," Fleur told her. "You understand practicality, frugalness, and basic common sense. That's rarer in the fashion world than you'd think. Besides…"

She lowered her voice, leaned forward, and briefly touched the other woman's hand with her own.

"You know damn well the number of people I can still trust can be counted on one hand," she added with a sigh. "And you top that list, Jeanne."

Samantha Clemens – her aide-de-camp in Illuminati affairs for over half a millennium, and the acting head of her personal project, _Sangral Fashion International._ Of course, she was far better known by the title with which she'd risen to prominence in the Hundred Years' War, "The Maid of Orléans." Or by her birth name: Jeanne d'Arc.

Rather than reassure the younger woman, however, Fleur's words only seemed to render her even more uncomfortable. She fidgeted in her seat, and when she finally brought herself to resume eating, chewed on the same tiny piece of pastry for over a minute.

Eventually, still without meeting the former queen's gaze, Samantha asked, "He's returning today, isn't he?"

Fleur briefly checked her watch, then said, "He should be landing in about thirty minutes. I've arranged a private plane to Heathrow. Plenty of room for, erm…_overlarge_ cargo."

She hesitated for a moment, and then continued, "You know, Sam…you could come with me. Meet him face-to-face. I'm still not wild about all the risks you've been taking on my behalf, but at least this way…"

But her assistant held up a hand. "I know you mean well, _madame,_ but…my loyalty is to _you._ Not to Duval, and not to any English King," she cut in. Despite her apologetic tone, there was an unmistakable hint of distaste as she spoke the latter words. "And yes, I'm aware that historically, the men who pillaged my homeland have little in common with Pendragon. But acknowledging prejudices doesn't simply make them vanish."

Fleur nodded solemnly as she took a deep draught of coffee. "_Oui._ I suppose, if that were true…" she whispered into the cup. "The Society might've taken a very different path."

Samantha looked like she was about to say something – but before she could, the pager strapped to her waist went off. She took one look at it, and her breath briefly hitched.

"What is it?" asked Fleur, now dabbing her lips with a napkin as she finished the last bite of her omelet. "Trouble at work?"

Her assistant bit her lip, but nodded and quietly said, "I, um…need to reply to this. But I'll be back in just a few minutes. Don't pay the whole bill while I'm gone!"

Fleur chuckled, as she'd already been reaching for her purse to do precisely that. She weighed the options in her head, debating the matter several times over, before ultimately placing her credit card on the table, alongside a _very_ generous tip.

Anyone willing to provide excellent service at what one might call "gargoyle hours" deserved at _least_ that much.

Meanwhile, Samantha stumbled into the café's restroom, bolting the door behind her and collapsing against it.

For the tenth time in less than a minute, she held the pager close to her face, and reread the message displayed upon its LED screen in big, blocky letters.

_**KEEP HER THERE A LITTLE WHILE LONGER.**_

[-]

**Le Château de Macbeth, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Macbeth had fourteen homes spread all across the world, and every single one of them came equipped with a hovercraft landing pad.

Still, just for the sake of added security, they'd spent most of their time in Paris airspace above the clouds, before descending quite rapidly as they neared their destination. It wasn't the safest flight plan, and strictly speaking might not have been very _legal,_ but it minimized the risk of prying eyes.

"Alright lads, Parisian sunrise is just a couple hours off. So it's probably best the more winged among us roost here fer the day," he said, as the motley group of passengers slowly disembarked. "Make yerselves at home…an' _please_ dinnae make me regret saying that."

In total, there were four London Clan gargoyles – Griff, Lunette, Leomaris, and Loch Ness "transfer" Kelpie – in addition to Macbeth, Arthur, and Merlin. Leomaris, or Liam as he was more commonly called, looked uncharacteristically sullen as he exited the hovercraft.

"Don't mind him," Griff told his liege, who was looking at the leonine gargoyle curiously. "He's just a little miffed I said no to another Glamour Charm food-tasting tour. The things are bloody useful, but I don't want us to start relying on 'em as a crutch. And we don't have the time right now, anyway."

"Bringing a chef through the French Quarter, an' _then_ through France herself. Yer a cruel gargoyle, sirrah," Macbeth offered with a chuckle. "Personally, if there's _one_ thing I nae regret about my immortality, it's the food. My Scotland was a poorer nation when it dinnae know of the taco."

"It is certainly one aspect of this world I am still working to adjust to," added Arthur, rubbing his eyes blearily. "I believe I am particularly partial to that soup-like concoction we consumed in Manhattan. The one with the thin noodles and Eastern spices."

"Ramen, Your Majesty," said Macbeth. "Another essential component of the modern man's diet."

The only face more "miffed" than Liam's belonged to Merlin, which wasn't entirely unusual. Still, he'd spent the entire flight over the Atlantic behind a locked door, and barely exchanged three words with anyone since leaving Manhattan.

As the wizened mage made his way from the vehicle and to his king's side, his gait still just a little bit uneven, Arthur lowered his voice and muttered, "It may not be my place to inquire, but…there is clearly a cloud over your head, my teacher. Does this concern the Lady Nimue?"

Merlin let out a heavy, chagrined sigh. "It felt as if she was so _close_ in New York…and now? I sense her even closer still," he answered, his gaze directed at the vast horizon. "Clearly, she has progressed from simply blocking my Sight, to actively _misdirecting_ it. Even _I_ would find that tricky to pull off, Wart. Whoever taught her after me must've been…"

He didn't finish the statement, instead crossing his arms and looking quite dour.

Griff, meanwhile, took a great step around the wizard, his eyes on his king.

"Alright, I think we've managed to unload everything. Despite Liam's constant grousing about missing out on…I didn't quite catch it. Sounded like 'booyah base,'" he said, gesturing with a talon toward Liam and Kelpie, who were hauling two big boxes into Macbeth's château. "What next, Your Majesty?"

"You mentioned you had something you needed to retrieve from this domicile?" Arthur asked Macbeth, as they ducked into the Scottish king's Paris home as well.

While just as grand in design as his New York manor, the château's rooms were dark and covered with a thick layer of dust, as if they hadn't seen use in some time.

"There were some…_unfortunate_ events in this place, a few years back," explained Macbeth. "I allowed myself teh get swept up in something I should've realized was too good teh be true. So I left an' dinnae look back. Nevertheless…"

He stopped short as they passed by a seemingly ordinary parlor. With one swift motion, he grabbed a candelabra hanging off the wall, and pulled down. The opposite wall swiveled around, revealing a number of objects that resembled museum pieces.

"Met a linguist when the book tour came teh Santa Barbara. Sharp chap, specializes in Native American languages," Macbeth continued, as he collected one of the artifacts and held it to the candlelight. "It's a long shot, but I want teh see if he can translate this inscription."

"What is it?" piped up Lunette, who it seemed had followed after them, mostly for lack of anyone telling her not to.

The former king furrowed his brow. "Hoping that's what _he'll_ be able teh tell me," he said, staring at the artifact apprehensively. "All I know is there's magic teh it I haven't been trained in."

Without being invited to do so, Merlin strode forward and tapped the object sharply with his staff.

"I can't honestly tell whether this is mortal sorcery or Third Race magicks. Maybe even something in between," he observed, eyes narrowing. "You say you've been keeping this in an empty house for _years?_"

"I collected a number of artifacts in my 'prepare-teh-slay-the-demon' days. Auctions, black markets, an' the like," answered Macbeth, a little defensively. "Wish I could say I kept good track of everything, but my head wasn't exactly in the best…"

"Whippersnapper!" shouted Merlin, cutting him off. The fifth century wizard was about one of the only people capable of calling him such a thing. "This is why the roles of 'king' and 'magician' aren't supposed to mix! Someone with the mind for one will always be a damn fool at the other."

Macbeth opened his mouth to say something, but Merlin waved a hand in dismissal.

"Here's what you need to do, boy, if you don't want this drafty old moth's nest to go up in a three-story fireball," he lectured the Scottish king. "Stick that thing in an iron container, if you have one, and wrap it up in sheepskin. Best material to resist magic. Then get yourself to this friend of yours, quick as you _possibly_ can, and obtain that translation. I'm not risking using my own sorcery anywhere _near_ it until we know more."

"Erm…very well, then…" said Macbeth, somewhat awkwardly. His grip on the artifact shifted, as if he was carrying a lit bomb, and he began to shuffle out of the room.

As he passed Arthur, though, he whispered aside, "I haven't been spoken teh like that in nine hundred years. Is he always…_like_ this?"

The corner of the Once and Future King's lips twitched slightly. "Just wait until you forget to do the homework he assigned you," he replied, just as quietly.

[-]

**Right Bank of the River Seine, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"What're you even looking at through that thing?" demanded Fang, ruffling uncomfortably beneath his heavy cloak. Despite the lateness of the hour, both he and Yama were covered up to minimize the risk of exposure. "You've been staring at moss and mud for almost ten minutes."

Dingo let out a sigh, before pulling off his silvery helmet and turning to the rest of the squad.

"I'd let ya borrow the helmet an' take a looksee yourself…if I wasn't worried 'bout the smell gettin' in," he said.

The five of them – counting Matrix in armor form – were kneeling at the bank of the Seine, held up in their search for Fantômas by the sheer amount of activity surrounding the waterway. Despite sunrise being nearly three hours away, a number of dockworkers and boat drivers were already hard at work.

"Anyway, been trackin' Fanty by traces of that special sand from the sheila's apartment. Musta gotten a bit on his shoes," Dingo went on, after a little while. "My armor can focus in on that stuff like a microscope, and Matrix takes it up to eleven. Unfortunately, the trail ends right here."

"**SEVERAL SUPPOSITIONS CAN BE POSITED,**" spoke Matrix, without shifting out of armor form. "**POSSIBLY THE CULPRIT REALIZED HE WAS BEING FOLLOWED, AND ABANDONED HIS FOOTWEAR. OR PERHAPS THE CONCENTRATION OF PARTICULATES, WHICH DECREASES STEADILY ALONG THE TRAIL, HAS APPROACHED THE LIMIT OF ZERO.**"

"Or, since we're right at the edge of a river…" added Hunter, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "He could've boarded a boat. Or even jumped right in. Matrix, how effectively can you operate underwater?"

"**MY NANITES ARE EACH INDIVIDUALLY SEALED AGAINST INTRUSION FROM ALL MANNER OF FLUIDS, AND CAN WITHSTAND PRESSURES UP TO TWENTY MILLION PASCALS,**" it answered. "**WOULD A SURVEY OF THIS BODY OF WATER ASSIST US IN PURSUING LAW AND ORDER?**"

She was unable to fully suppress a smirk as she said, "Oh, yes. It _absolutely_ would."

"Now wait here just a bleedin' minute, Matrix!" exclaimed Dingo, his eyes snapping back to the Seine. "That water's filthy! Don't I get a say in…"

But the "visor" of his helmet was already molding shut, and the shape of his armor subtly shifting for better aerodynamics underwater.

He let out a rapid, half-discernible string of swear words and Australian slang, and then dove straight in.

Hunter stood still for a few moments. Then she turned to Yama and asked casually, "So…anything new?"

A short while later, a rather soaked Dingo was stepping out of the River Seine, his armor shrinking away as he did. Matrix coalesced into a small, silvery puddle, which perched upon his shoulder.

"Know how we talked about 'ground rules' after that fiasco in Hokkaido?" demanded Dingo, who was hacking and coughing despite being bone-dry; the river water had all sloughed off as Matrix changed shape. "We're gonna have to add a couple more, mate."

"**THESE 'GROUND RULES' ARE NOT CONDUCIVE TO ACHIEVING LAW AND ORDER,**" said Matrix. "**NEVERTHELESS, IN THE INTEREST OF MAINTAINING THE AMICABILITY OF OUR PARTNERSHIP, THEY WILL BE TAKEN UNDER ADVISEMENT.**"

"That's…prolly the best I can hope for right now," Dingo responded with a sigh, before turning to the rest of the squad. "Anyway, sheila, looks like you were right on the money. Big sewage tunnel directly beneath our feet, an' Matrix found traces of some bloke steppin' right through it. This guy's _good_ at coverin' his tracks…but Matrix is better."

"Don't tell me that means we're gonna _follow_ him through there," groaned Fang, furred hand against his forehead. "Cuz _some_ of us don't have fancy robo-suits to keep off the piss and shit."

He glanced toward Hunter, who was glaring at him, and quickly added, "Oh, sorry. Forgot where I was. _Pisse_ and _merde._ There…French. Much better."

"**SUCH ACTION WILL NOT BE NECESSARY,**" Matrix declared, before things could escalate further. "**I HAVE DOWNLOADED COMPREHENSIVE SCHEMATICS OF THE PARIS WASTE SEWAGE SYSTEM. TRACING LIKELY PATHS FOR THE CULPRIT'S ESCAPE.**"

There was a brief pause, and then…

"**ANALYSIS COMPLETE.**"

[-]

**Le Château de Macbeth, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Just over an hour remained until sunrise, and Lunette was bored out of her skull.

The night was still young in New York, so she'd been hoping to get a message from Gnash during a lull in his patrol. Nevertheless, her most recent messages had gone unanswered for quite some time.

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Just landed, Paris is SO gorgeous at night_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Its not weird if I say it kinda makes me think of you right_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ …_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Nevermind please dont answer that_

She hoped it wasn't that he'd been creeped out by her question. A (hopefully) more plausible explanation was that such a "lull" simply wasn't going to materialize tonight. She knew she'd left at a rather hectic time.

A Chinese triad was threatening to move in on the Dracon family's turf, sparking the flames of a new gang war. Meanwhile, a rash of unexplained but grisly murders had begun to spring up along the Upper East Side.

Combine that with villains like Demona, Coldsteel, and the Ultra-Pack still being at large, and it was a busy time to serve as New York's protectors.

Suddenly, Lunette's LexPhone beeped with an alert.

_**TimeLad:**__ nah no worries_

_**TimeLad:**__ sorry 4 leaving u hanging btw_

_**TimeLad:**__ been a buuuuuuuuuuusy nite_

_**TimeLad:**__ but weve been on this stakeout like 3 hours now_

_**TimeLad:**__ thank the dragon i brought my d20 ;)_

_**TimeLad:**__ ur gonna have 2 trust me cuz HOLY CARP nat 20_

_**TimeLad:**__ i crit, dire wolf goes dooooooooown_

_**TimeLad:**__ ur turn_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ NICE_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Also whats that thing_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ What you typed after the d20_

_**TimeLad:**__ oh uh_

_**TimeLad:**__ emoji? or do u still call em emoticons? i THINK theyre around now_

_**TimeLad:**__ anyway theyll be BIG in a few years_

_**TimeLad:**__ just dont let em make a movie about em TRUST me on this_

Lunette didn't entirely "get" the joke, but she suppressed a giggle all the same. She began to type out a reply, but before she could hit send, the sound of a doorbell echoed through the château.

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Hold on a sec need to check on something_

Seeing that no one else was around to answer the summons, Lunette walked over to the door, and stood on tip-toes to peer through the peephole. The face on the other side was _not_ one she'd expected to see.

Cautiously, she unlocked and unbolted the door, and allowed Blanchefleur to step inside.

"_Merci,_ little one. I know I'm here a little later than I said I would, but at least I made it before dawn," she said. "Can I see Arthur? I have some things I need to discuss with him."

Lunette, however, stared back at the woman in utter confusion. "But…you were just here," she told the former queen. "You left with them about an hour ago, didn't you?"

There was a lengthy silence.

Then, Fleur sputtered, "Wait…_what?_"

"Macbeth had to turn right back around to take an artifact to America," explained the young gargoyle. "Then you showed up a little while later, looking…like, _really_ frantic. You said there was something Arthur, Griff, and Merlin _needed_ to see – that it couldn't wait until tomorrow night."

"You mean…they're all gone?" asked Fleur, taking a step back out of disbelief. "And you're saying they left with _me?_ But…But how is that…"

Her eyes suddenly went wide.

"_Mon Dieu_…" she whispered, utterly horrified. "We need to hurry, little one."

[-]

**Palais Garnier, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"It is an exquisite hall of performance, milady…of that, there is no doubt," said Arthur, unable to resist a certain degree of awe as they walked through the opulent opera house. "But what business must we attend to that is so urgent?"

"We can't talk about it here. The Society has ears in every nook and cranny," Fleur replied, without looking back. "Once I'm sure we're not being watched, I'll explain everything."

The building certainly wasn't lacking for "nooks and crannies." An elaborate melding of Baroque and Renaissance architecture, the Palais Garnier was perhaps the most famous opera house in the world, and as such was chockfull of sculptures, reliefs, and other artwork.

Fortunately, it _wasn't_ open to the public at night, which was good news for the swordsman in plate armor, griffin-like gargoyle, and long-bearded wizard stomping through its halls.

"Guess it was too much to ask for _one_ leg of this journey to be pyramid-free," quipped Griff, his lightning gun held at the ready. He was walking a step in front and to the side of Arthur, so as best to protect his liege. "Better make this a quick doddle, though. Sun's getting nearer by the minute."

"I've got a bad feeling about this place, Wart. Let's hurry up and get this over with," muttered Merlin, wincing as they passed a statue of Cronus swallowing his sons. "Don't they realize all these depictions of the Children give them power here? Idiots, the lot of them."

The gargoyle's beak turned downward into a scowl. "I _really_ don't think that ever crossed the architect's mind," he said, giving the mage a serious case of side-eye.

"And whose fault is that?" Merlin exclaimed. "Do you have _any_ idea how many calamities could've been averted over the centuries if every construction project had a decent wizard on standby? 'Oh no, perhaps you _shouldn't_ build your new school over an ancient burial ground!' 'My word, so it really _isn't_ a good idea to line my fortress with the bones of my enemies!' Curses, specters, vengeful gods…places like this are a _breeding ground_ for all manner of mystical nasties, and if there's _one_ thing I know…"

"Oh will you put a _sock_ in it, old man?" Griff suddenly snapped.

The wizard stopped short, clutching onto his staff. "…Excuse me?" he asked.

"For just _one_ minute, could you quit grousing about like a hatchling with a stomachache?" replied Griff, not backing down at the stormy look in Merlin's eyes. "Believe it or not, it gets _old._"

"I'm not going to stop offering my expertise where warranted…simply because it _irritates_ you, gargoyle," said Merlin. "Why don't you concentrate a little more on _your_ role in things, and I'll focus on mine?"

"I _think_ that is more than enough," spoke up Arthur, getting between the pair before Griff could rejoin further. "This petty squabbling between the two of you has lasted long enough. Remember that we have far bigger concerns at present."

"_Oui,_" whispered Fleur. "You do indeed."

In the commotion of the argument, none of them had noticed the blonde woman break away from the group. Now she was standing several feet away, beneath the painting of a cloaked figure in a white half-face mask, carrying a beautiful woman in his arms.

"Your little _tête-à-tête_ was very conveniently timed, gentlemen. _Merci beaucoup,_" she continued, and though her voice stayed the same, her French accent seemed to noticeably thicken. "It made it much simpler to arrange you all in ze _location approprié._"

That was all the warning she gave before shifting the painting to the side, and hitting a button hidden behind it.

At the same time, the floor beneath the trio opened up. Griff made a wild grasp for his king, but it was too late.

All three of them tumbled into darkness.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Griff came to in a dank, crypt-like chamber, barely large enough for him to stand in.

He knew he must not have been out long, because he hadn't yet gone through stone sleep; the sheer exhaustion he felt was proof. On the other hand, he had no way of knowing just _how_ many minutes remained until sunrise.

Being a gargoyle, he was probably the only one of the three who'd been able to follow what happened as they fell through pitch-blackness. They'd gone down some kind of enormous slide, which branched down a number of different paths. He'd been separated from Arthur first, and then from Merlin, despite his best attempts to find purchase with his claws.

Finally, he'd landed in this chamber, where he must've hit his head and blacked out briefly. Groaning, he stumbled to his feet, trying to take stock of his situation.

"Alright. Guess we've got two possibilities here," he said to himself. "Either Fleur's decided to betray us and everything we stand for – which, to be fair, she did already, just the other way around – or she's got a _really_ bang-up imposter."

He stumbled toward the only door, shaking his head to clear it.

"Either way, I need to focus on escaping. _Can't_ afford to turn to stone in a place like this," he went on. "Gotta find Arthur and the old grouch before I…"

But the words died in his throat as he turned the doorknob, and stepped into the next room.

It was like a painting he'd once seen, brought to life. One with innumerable staircases, twisting and turning and overlaying each other, and each one leading to a different, seemingly identical archway. As he drew closer, he saw that some of the staircases didn't truly _exist_ at all, but rather were optical illusions, disappearing when viewed from another angle.

"I'm not much more fond of riddles than Arthur is," Griff murmured with a sigh. "Guess I'll just need to try 'em one at a time."

He picked one of the nearby staircases at random, and bounded through its doorway.

This quickly turned out to be an absolutely terrible idea. One of the archways led to a room that was completely filled with swirling, pinkish liquid. Another seemed to lead him outside, but when he inspected more carefully he realized it was merely a domed ceiling, painted to look like stars.

Each new room proved more surreal and unhinged than the last. False floors and ceilings, revolving doors, passageways seemingly _designed_ to send him around in circles. Soon enough Griff was clinging onto an only halfway-completed staircase, nursing a raging headache.

"What kind of sick bastard is responsible for this place?" he asked the empty air. "Where _am_ I?"

_Ah, you ask ze right question, _gargouille!_ For what _artiste_ can resist signing 'is work?_

The voice, deep and masculine, seemed to come from everywhere at once. Griff could only imagine that there must be some kind of loudspeaker system, but no audio source was evident.

"Who are you?" Griff demanded.

_As ze great Odysseus once said, I am 'No One' – and zus, I am _Everyone._ Nothing more or less zan _un fantôme simple.

_Do you appreciate _mon antre?_ I 'ave claimed it as my 'ome for many years; built it, with my own two 'ands. It 'elped zat I was contracted to create ze foundations for zis _Palais._ I was once quite ze deft 'and _à la construction.

_From 'ere, I 'ave 'aunted zis _opéra_ for as long as its 'alls 'ave rang with _la symphonie mélodieuse._ And now…your death will be ze next tune to join its sweet _'armonie.

"Oh, I get it. So you're some sort of hired gun," said Griff, feeling increasingly incensed the longer this "fantôme" prattled on. "Well I won't let you touch Arthur! The moment I find him, you'll be…!"

But he was cut off by a snippet of laughter, low and cruel.

_Ah, but you misunderstand! _Le Roi de Pendragon_ is not _ma cible_ zis night._

_Zat would be you, _ma chère gargouille.

That revelation threw Griff for a bit of a loop, but he recovered quickly. "Guess I should be grateful someone wants me out of the picture _that_ badly," he replied. "Still, I'm guessing that was _you_ impersonating Fleur? So why the bloody hell didn't you just stick me with a knife when you had the chance?"

When the voice answered, it almost sounded _offended._

_Because zat would not be sporting, _mais non?_ Art takes time and effort. Particularly when ze subject is so…_unique.

_It is very rare zat I add _une gargouille _to _ma gallerie._ For zis, ze details must be _parfait absolument.

"What sort of details?" said Griff, what little remained of his patience rapidly thinning away. "Why go through all this effort, if you're just gonna dust me in the end?"

But even as he spoke these words, Griff could hear a heavy thudding sound, not a great distance away.

_Because art is, among other zings…_un médium collaboratif._ Ah, _mais oui_…I could certainly 'ave finished zese matters myself. But zat would not be fair to _mes collègues.

_So instead, I 'ave decided to…'ow shall we say…_

_Soften you up, _un peu.

_And as for ze matter of bringing zings to zeir _conclusion ultime_…_

The thudding came to a halt, as an enormous figure appeared in one of the archways.

He looked as similar to an ordinary human as Griff did to a pigeon. He stood at about eight feet, with limbs out of proportion even to his hulking frame. His skin was dry, gaunt, and jaundiced, and looked as if it'd been forcibly stretched across his body, like an ill-fitting suit. His skull, wrinkled and bruised, contained no trace of hair, though it did have several prominent, pulsing veins.

The only clothing he wore were a pair of workman's jeans, leaving the rest of his body on full display. Griff could honestly say he'd never seen something so hideous…and yet, in a way, utterly captivating.

That effect was only enhanced as the figure hoisted up a weapon at least as thick as Griff's torso, and pointed it straight at the gargoyle.

"_That_ job falls to me," he rumbled.

Then he pulled the trigger.


	3. Episode III: Strength

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode III: Strength**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Diogenes Club, London**

**September 29, 2000**

"I really do think you're worrying too much about this, Adam," said a handsome man in a plain, white collared shirt, the buttons casually undone halfway down his chest. "Raise, by the way."

He accompanied his words by pushing a substantial stack of poker chips to the center of the table.

"And I think you worry altogether too _little,_ George," argued his opponent – a giant of a man, whose enormous frame strained the seams of his chair. "Hungary? China? Ireland? And those are just the places we _know_ Țepeș has been sniffing around. He's up to something, and we need to know what."

"Speak for yourself. Vlad III of Wallachia has not occupied my thoughts for nearly half a century, and not a night goes by that I regret that decision," the man called George replied. "Immortals come in two flavors, my friend. Those of us who can adjust to the tides of time as they flow and churn around us…and those who stubbornly cling to a bygone past they can never reclaim. Our dear count is most assuredly among the latter."

He leaned forward, his eyes glimmering. His lip slipped upward, flashing his pronounced canines.

"But you're stalling, Adam," he added calmly. "Are you in, or out?"

Without his expression changing even slightly, Adam shoved an equivalent number of chips forward with a single, overlarge palm and rumbled, "Call."

George's smirk deepened as he laid down his hand. The triple 7s in his hand combined with the pair of Jacks on the board to form a full house.

That smirk fell away as his opponent revealed the _other_ two Jacks. Four of a kind.

"You truly do have a _monstrous_ poker face, my friend," said George, recovering his good humor with remarkable swiftness. "No offense intended."

Adam rolled his eyes as he collected his substantial winnings. "Now can we return to business?" he asked. "Whether you consider Țepeș an active threat or not, I've tangled with that viper _far_ too many times to feel confident in underestimating him. You know, I've actually killed him – _twice._ Never seems to stick."

"You certainly don't need to tell me twice," the other man responded coolly. "I just feel that vagabond of a voivode has always occupied an…_outsized_ portion of the Society's interest, that's all. Only three of my kind remain in our ranks, after all: myself, the dear Lady Harker, and of course…"

"You told me once, my friend," interrupted Adam, as he began shuffling for the next hand. As always, his hands demonstrated remarkable dexterity, despite their overlarge and misshapen nature. "That the perfect world for a vampire is one in which you are the only one of your kind…and where no one else remembers you exist."

George chuckled, bearing again a full-fanged grin.

"I stole the line, I'm afraid. As I have all my poetry, as of late," he said, his tone half-amused, half-lamenting. "You know, I haven't been able to properly _write_ since the turning? Moreau thinks it's psychosomatic, and I see no reason to disagree. But that doesn't make the barrier any easier to overcome."

Though there was no hair upon it, a portion of Adam's brow rose slightly.

"What a sight," he murmured. "The Lord Byron, at a loss for words."

"No more unusual than Frankenstein's monster, the undefeated card shark," the vampire tossed back glibly.

Adam froze for a moment, staring at the other man through yellowed, bloodshot eyes. His friend seemed to realize he'd misstepped, his expression turning appropriately contrite.

"I know, I know. No more of the 'F' word, I promise," spoke George Gordon Byron, his tone apologetic. "I suppose if my father had been the tosser yours was – not that 'Mad Jack' Byron was anything to write home about, if the nickname wasn't enough of a clue – then I'd probably be just as sore on the subject."

The creature let out a deep, though breathless, sigh.

"I'll deal this time," he said, in lieu of addressing the point. He placed the deck upon the table and began passing over cards, one at a time.

George looked down upon his suddenly rather meager collection of chips. This was likely to be his last hand.

Before he could glance at it, though, the silence in the room was broken by a sharp ringing sound. The source was an old-fashioned rotary telephone in the center of the table.

Though instead of a dial, the phone was marked with the symbol of an eye overlooking a pyramid.

The vampire picked up the receiver after a single ring and stated, nearly automatically, "Twenty-one."

There was a pause, as he listened to the caller's introduction. Then, pursing his ruby-red lips, he passed it on to his companion with an airy, "It's for you."

"Eighteen," Adam intoned, looking a bit perplexed as he accepted the receiver – which was about half the size of his hand. There weren't very many people looking to contact _him_ these days.

But all confusion was dispelled as he heard the aged, accented voice on the other end.

"_Five. I trust you are well, Adam?"_

"Great One. It has been some time," said the creature, reverently. "To what do I owe this honor?"

"_No need to stand on ceremony. You may have been one of my _Hashashin,_ once upon a time, but it became clear very quickly there was little else to teach you. Whatever tribulations may have accompanied your 'birth,' your…_unique_ physiology has afforded you benefits few men can claim."_

"One man's 'benefit' is another man's albatross," murmured Adam. "But largely, yes, I have made peace with what I am. This titanic form has allowed me to accomplish…a great deal of good in this world."

"_Hence why you are now enjoying a quiet, and well-earned, retirement. Even the Illuminati's greatest monster hunter must eventually hang up his hat, so to speak."_

Adam didn't have to be a genius – though that wouldn't have been an inaccurate moniker – to see where this conversation was heading.

"You have an assignment for me, Great One," he declared. It wasn't a question.

"_One last job, my dear Adam. One that I can entrust to none but my best."_

"Who, or _what,_ is the target?" asked Adam.

"_If I know Mycroft half as well as I think I do, he should already have all those details arranged for you. Now, you must be off. It is _imperative_ you arrive in Paris before sunrise."_

Adam couldn't keep from glancing toward his friend. Because that instruction most likely meant his target was either a vampire, or else…

"Movaffaq bâši, _Adam. May your blade meet its mark with swiftness and alacrity."_

The moment he hung up the receiver, George said lightly, "So…I trust we'll have to put a pin in the present game?"

"Come with me," was all Adam chose to offer in reply. "We need to visit Mycroft's office. He's supposed to…"

But before they could get out of their seats, the door to the Diogenes Club's game room was already swinging open, revealing a rotund man with a lit cigar between two fingers.

"Speak of the Devil, and He shall appear," breathed Mycroft Holmes. He tipped the hand holding the cigar to both of his compatriots. "Lord Ruthven. Mr. Prometheus."

Adam opened his mouth to speak, but already the corpulent man was laying a thick binder before him.

"Once this assignment fell to Hassan-i Sabbah, it wasn't difficult to deduce you'd be among his Assassins pressed into service," he continued on, without missing a beat. "Come along. I've already arranged transport to Paris. You can read through the file on the way."

Mycroft paused for a moment, as if thinking something over, before adding, "Oh…and you'll want to stop by the armory before heading off. I recommend one of Mr. Leonardo's 'custom' tools."

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Griff made a wild dive at the last moment, slipping under the nearest twisting staircase.

Doing so most definitely saved his life.

The brute's weapon discharged several dozen metal balls, which remained suspended in the air in a sort of silvery cloud. Half a second later, bolts of electricity arced between the orbs, filling the room with the putrid scent of burning ozone.

Anything standing where _he'd_ been a few moments ago would've been fried to a crisp.

"There's no point in dragging this out, gargoyle," said the giant, spinning a barrel in his weapon to reload the chamber. "Face death with dignity, and I'll at least make sure it's a swift one."

"Pass," Griff called back. "Fortunately, you're not the only chap who can play with lightning!"

And with that, he emerged from cover and fired a bolt from his own gun, directly at his opponent's chest.

For a moment, Griff almost pumped his fist; he'd scored a clean hit, at maximum power.

But his face fell as the smoke cleared, and the creature continued forward unabated.

"You should know that I am immune to electricity," he declared as he walked. "Neither can I be brought fallow by extreme cold or heat. I do not breathe, so I can neither be poisoned nor drowned. I feel no pain, no fatigue. I _cannot_ be stopped, until my mission is complete."

"Who are you?" demanded Griff, lightning gun now held limply in his grip. "_What_ are you?"

"I have no name, for my father gifted me none; he abandoned me long before he could think to offer even _that,_ the most basic responsibility of parentage," said his enemy. "In absence of such, I have been called many things. The Adam of your labors. The Modern Prometheus. But to you, gargoyle, I am one thing, and one thing only."

He raised his weapon, and aimed it once more.

"I am your end."

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

King Arthur stumbled through the seemingly endless labyrinth of chaos and surrealism, hating every last moment of it.

He'd never been fond of riddles, and this place he'd landed in after falling through the darkness was essentially one big riddle brought to life. Every corner offered nothing but more questions, twists, and turns.

After a certain point, he'd given up and just started slashing through the walls of each room with Excalibur. It seemed whoever designed this maze hadn't anticipated him "cheating" in this way, because so far the method was proving remarkably effective.

Still, it brought him no closer to reuniting with Merlin or Sir Griff.

Obviously, they'd been tricked – most likely by an agent of the Illuminati. Given everything else at their disposal, a shape-changer wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

Still, their impersonation of Lady Blanchefleur had been…_uncannily_ thorough. At least up to the end. Until their foe had been _certain_ they were trapped within their web, the imposter had matched the former queen perfectly in appearance, voice, and even body language.

They'd brushed away a lock of hair when greeting someone, like Fleur; they'd stepped with a slightly staggered gait, as if subconsciously reticent to walk too far ahead, like Fleur; they'd looked askance with their eyes half-lidded when evading a question, like Fleur.

Then again, Arthur reasoned, she _had_ been a member of the Society's Upper Echelons until very recently. No small wonder an Illuminati spy might be able to imitate her flawlessly.

The king let out a lengthy sigh. "Did you always traffic in this level of deception, Sir Percival? And I just never noticed?" he whispered to himself. "Or was it my very absence that led you astray?"

He continued forward for some time, hacking and slashing through every obstacle in his path with Excalibur. No matter the barrier, it proved little match for the might of his blessed blade.

At least until he came to a room that appeared to be filled top to bottom with lime gelatin dessert.

Instinctively, Arthur struck to cleave a path through the verdant substance. But though Excalibur easily managed to pierce its surface, the farther he cut the slower the blade's progress became. After a certain point, it felt like he was slicing through solid stone.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur pulled Excalibur back to try again – but the sword would not budge. Instead, slowly, it began to be pulled in further.

"I wrested this blade from the very Stone of Destiny," he said, impatiently. "I will not be bested by an overgrown mold!"

But now it was taking all his strength simply to maintain his grip. The greenish slime was now hard as steel, and actually seemed to be _expanding._

"No…No…_No!_" he grunted, as he continued to pull back with all his might. "You _will_ relinquish your hold!"

He hadn't actually expected to receive an answer.

"_Ah, _un prix bonus!_ 'Ow will _mes supérieurs_ react when I bring zem, not only ze 'ead of ze _chevalier gargouille_…but ze _Épée de la Victoire Promise_ as well? Oh, zis is certainly _une nuit fortuite…_"_

"Who speaks?" demanded Arthur, still straining to hold onto his blade. "Are you the enemy who seeks to entrap us?"

"'_Seeks'? _Mais non, mon roi!_ By any standard, it is clear I 'ave succeeded! You, _le chevalier, l'archimage_…your strength is at its peak only when united. Divided, you fall. My understanding of zis simple fact is ze reason I stand on ze cusp of _la victoire ultime._"_

"I know only a little of your tongue, fiend…but I would be remiss not to recognize the word for 'gargoyle'! Nor your thinly veiled threats," Arthur called out. "What do you intend with Sir Griff?"

"Moi? _Oh, I 'ave not touched 'im. _Mon associé,_ on ze other 'and? Well now…"_

Arthur's heartbeat quickened, and he redoubled his efforts at freeing Excalibur. If he understood this mysterious enemy correctly, Griff was in grave danger – and so was Merlin, if "l'archimage" translated to what he thought it did.

But the harder he pulled on the blade, the _faster_ the slime seemed to grow. He received a deep chill up his spine as it made contact with his skin, slinking up the fingers that gripped Excalibur and swallowing them up, one by one.

"_Impressed, _mon roi?Une création ingénieuse,_ if I do say so myself. Zis _substance unique_ absorbs zee kinetic energy of your own struggling, and uses it as fuel for its _expansion._ If you want _mon conseil,_ you 'ad best release your grip…or else be pulled in yourself."_

"Never!" exclaimed King Arthur, though maintaining his hold grew more difficult by the moment.

Still, after everything he'd gone through to reclaim his companion blade, the _last_ thing he was willing to do was let it go.

At least his opponent, in his arrogance, had revealed the secret of his own weapon. Which meant Arthur had to fight smarter, rather than harder.

But before he had the chance to devise more than the dim embers of a stratagem, the wall on the opposite side of the room exploded.

"_Ugh_…seriously not likin' the readings Matrix is gettin' off that green mess," said a somewhat familiar voice. "Mate, ya willin' to take this one?"

"**AFFIRMATIVE. ANALYSIS CONFIRMS MY NANITES CAN CONSUME THIS SUBSTANCE AND BREAK IT DOWN INTO ITS CONSTITUENT PARTICLES,**" answered another. "**BEGINNING PROCESS NOW.**"

What followed was a sight the Once and Future King could honestly say he'd never witnessed before. Though the green substance seemed to fill the entirety of the room, another fluid – this one silvery and metallic – expanded to even greater size, swallowing it whole.

The silver liquid convulsed several times, then gradually began to shrink. Eventually, it formed into a vaguely humanoid figure.

"**THAT WAS A PECULIAR EXPERIENCE,**" was all it had to add.

Several others followed after the metallic being, all of them wearing similar, jet-black uniforms. Arthur couldn't help but smile.

Right now, friends were a welcome sight.

"Lady Canmore. It does my heart well to see you and your team again," he told their masked leader, as she emerged through the hole Matrix had blasted. "I know not why you've come to this place, but I remember fondly our adventure in China. I humbly beseech your aid once more."

The Hunter, however, did not smile. Instead she walked straight up to Arthur, and pinched him on both cheeks.

"Apologies, Yuir Majesty," she said. "But I have tae make sure."

Then, she yanked upward with all her might.

The king was too flabbergasted by this strange turn of events to exhibit any kind of reaction. He remained in stunned silence as the blonde woman stepped back, apparently satisfied.

"We're tracking a criminal who's a master of disguise," she explained, after a brief but awkward pause. "Calls himself 'Fantômas.' This appears tae be his lair. In here, yeh cannae trust _anything_ yeh see."

"A master of disguise, you say?" repeated Arthur, stroking his beard musingly. "I'm fairly confident we've encountered him already. He used a friend's false face to lure myself, Sir Griff, and Merlin into a deadly trap."

"Wait wait wait wait wait hold _up,_" interjected Fang, who brought up the rear of the group. "We're talking, like…_that_ Merlin? Higitus Figitus, all that jazz?"

"That, err…isn't a spell I recognize. But yes. I understand my teacher is, rightfully, just as well-remembered as I in these halcyon times," he answered. "We reunited about a year after we vanquished the chi-vampire."

Yama crossed his arms and frowned, one hand remaining clenched upon his short sword.

"Then why are they not with you?" he asked sternly. "Has something happened to your _tengu_ retainer?"

"I…I wish I knew," said Arthur, honestly. "Part of the trap involved separating us – to pick us off, one by one. The fiend confirmed it himself, over some sort of sound projection system. It seems he could not resist gloating."

The Japanese gargoyle's scowl grew even more pronounced. "Nothing but a coward's tactics," he muttered. "This 'Fantômas' has no honor."

The Hunter stood off to the side, taking this all in carefully.

Eventually, she cleared her throat and declared, "It seems that, once maer, we seek the same quarry. And the remedy should be the same as well. An alliance – if a temporary one."

"Hey, ain't gotta twist _my_ arm to team up with the livin' legend," offered Dingo, holding out an arm toward Matrix.

The program's featureless face almost seemed to turn quizzical, as it turned to its partner and intoned, "**WILL COOPERATION WITH UNIT 'PENDRAGON' SUPPORT OUR PURSUIT OF LAW AND ORDER?**"

"Well, I mean…it'll probably make it more likely we take down Fanty. An' that bloke's been runnin' from law an' order _way_ too damn long," responded the mercenary, shrugging one shoulder. "We're already in the belly o' the beast…might as well give him some bloomin' indigestion."

"**ACKNOWLEDGED. COMMENCING OPERATION,**" said Matrix, before making contact with Dingo's outstretched arm and flowing over it, becoming armor once more.

"Alright! Quick question, though," drawled Fang. "_How_ exactly do we do that?"

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Griff collapsed to the ground, panting heavily.

He'd been fleeing his pursuer for…he wasn't sure _how_ long. Adrenaline had a way of blending the minutes together, and his brain had been taking in nothing but since the giant fired his first shot.

It didn't help that his every instinct was _screaming_ to stand and fight. Running away from a challenge simply wasn't in his swashbuckling nature.

But his lightning gun was useless against this opponent, and even in physical strength Griff was thoroughly outmatched. He would've had difficulty even _lifting_ the weapon that the brute was swinging about like it was hollow.

The only advantage Griff had against him was in speed – and even in that, the two weren't all _that_ far apart. His pursuer was surprisingly nimble for his size, and it was taking all of Griff's dwindling stamina to stay just a few steps ahead.

Already, he'd found himself an inch away from death no less than four times. And his enemy was trying his damnedest for number five.

"I appreciate your tenacity, gargoyle," said the giant, simply walking through a misshapen door rather than pushing it aside. This room, like the first, resembled a painting Griff had once seen, with all the walls and furniture appearing as if halfway melted. "But you must realize the futility of your endeavor. There is only one way this all can end."

"Hey, I've faced off against Nazis, scorpion mutates, and elemental djinns. You're nothing I haven't seen before, you bloody ugly sod," Griff shot back, as he ducked behind a table covered with melting clocks and attempted to circle around his assailant.

But his path was cut off by another volley from the electric cannon, forcing him out of cover. Left with no choice but to stand his ground, Griff let out a low growl, his eyes flashing white.

Then he launched forward.

He'd surmised, accurately, that engaging the brute in close-quarters combat would prevent him from firing his weapon. What he _hadn't_ realized was that at this range, the cannon doubled just fine as a steel club – with the breadth of a tree trunk.

Griff dodged the first strike by the slimmest of margins, but counterattacked swiftly, decking his opponent with a rising uppercut.

And promptly roared out in pain.

It felt like punching a brick wall. The giant's skin was tough, leathery – and didn't feel as if it possessed a _single_ weak point. Undeterred, Griff tried slashing his assailant with his claws instead…but for all the effect it had, he might as well have been a mosquito poking at him.

Breathing heavily, the gargoyle continued his assault, striking his enemy again and again. The creature didn't budge an inch.

Then, in a deep and resonant voice, he said, "My turn."

The brute sank a gargantuan fist into Griff's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The knight's eyes bulged as he collapsed to his knees, coughing up blood.

His opponent promptly followed up with a sharp kick, sending Griff flying. He landed against a half-melted wall, and heard a sickening crack as his tail buckled under him.

"Oh, _fantastic_…" he mumbled, as piercing pain shot up his body. "That'll take _days'_ worth of sleep to fix…"

A few seconds later, however, he realized a possible blessing to his latest predicament. He'd impacted the wall hard enough to partially crack its surface, exposing a hollow space.

He turned his head back to the giant, who was already lining up another shot.

Griff swore under his breath, then launched himself against the opening. His body crashed straight through, tumbling into darkness.

It soon became clear that what lay beyond the false wall was another "slide," this one twisting and curving, apparently randomly, in any number of directions. Griff spiraled around and around more times than he could count, until he'd completely lost all sense of balance…

And was deposited onto a surprisingly soft surface.

It took Griff a little while to regain his bearings, but once his vision cleared, two things quickly became apparent.

One was that he seemed to have landed in…well, for all the world, it _looked_ like a forest clearing. He was surrounded by trees, grass, and mist the thickness of pea soup. Sparkling stars glittered above – but Griff was certain they had to be illusory, like the dome room he'd passed through earlier.

The other was the man at the center of the clearing, reposing quietly against a rock.

"Oh, bugger," he said under his breath, as he walked resignedly toward the sleeping Merlin. "This is going to be one of those 'stuck together with the bloke you can't stand so you learn a valuable lesson' adventures, isn't it."

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"I see. Clearly, we will need to keep a closer eye on this 'Taro,'" mused King Arthur, as he listened to Robyn Canmore recount the adventure immediately following their first meeting. "Do you believe he is connected to the Illuminati as well?"

"_ Īe,_" Yama cut in, with a shake of his head. "I have known Taro all of his life. He is a dangerous man, let that be certain…but he lacks the discipline, and the temperament."

"Dude's basically a bargain-basement Xanatos. With half the balls and a quarter of the brains," offered Fang loudly.

"Be that as it may, we're fairly certain _someone_ in Bushido Concepts repaerts tae the Society," said Hunter, cutting the mutate off before he could "help" any further. "For one thing, they've got a hand in _most_ multinationals – Microsoft, Walmart, Cyberbiotics, ExxonMobil. But rarely at the top, it just innae their style. Janitors, secretaries, cafeteria workers…_that's_ where yeh'll find their agents, maer often than not."

"Hidin' in plain sight. Ol' Johnny Oldcastle taught me all about that," Dingo added, more than a bit bitterly. "Lookin' back, no surprise he joined up with that sorry lot. Blighters deserve each other."

"Still, this 'Project Orochi' you mentioned is certainly…_concerning,_" Arthur replied. "And it tracks disturbingly closely with several other incidents observed in our journeys. But that is a discussion for another night."

"**INDEED,**" stated Matrix, as the entire group stopped in their tracks. "**EVIDENTLY, THERE REMAIN FAR MORE IMMEDIATE CONCERNS.**"

The room they'd just arrived in didn't appear to have a ceiling – or walls, or a floor. It was all a swimming mass of dark storm clouds, which floated about at a leisurely pace in all directions, crackling with pent-up energy.

"Alright, whatever yeh do, dinnae…" Hunter began, before being cut off by a slamming sound. She buried her face in her palm. "…Close the daer."

"Sorry. My bad," said Fang, with a degree of sincerity that left something to be desired.

Now there was nothing to distinguish the direction they'd come in from the rest of the, for lack of a better term, "room." Above, below, and to every side, there were only clouds.

"Alright, alright…let's relax, mates," murmured Dingo, in a tone that seemed geared more toward convincing himself than anyone else. "Jus' another optical illusion, eh? S'probably all jus' solid ground, with holograms or somethin'."

"**NEGATIVE,**" Matrix blared out, before anyone else could respond. "**I DETECT PITFALLS THROUGHOUT THE SURFACE, ARRAYED IN NO PARTICULAR PATTERN. THE NEAREST ONE IS HALF A CENTIMETER FROM YOUR LEFT FOOT, FANG.**"

"Jesus _effing_ Christballs!" the mutate exclaimed, backing away a few steps. "Way to warn a guy!"

"If Matrix can sense the pits' positions, our best bet is to hitch a ride in bubble faerm," Hunter told her team, before turning to Arthur. "Just, erm…roll with it, Yuir Majesty."

"I think it not too boastful to say I have a particular talent for 'rolling with' things, Lady Canmore," answered the king, as Matrix's nanites dutifully took the form of an enormous orb, and swallowed up the entire party.

Several moments passed with Arthur and his allies sandwiched together in Matrix's dark, cramped confines – uncomfortable, but otherwise safe. The program kept up a steady, verbal progress report, since none of them could see where they were going.

"**APPROACHING NEAREST EGRESS, A DISTANCE OF PRECISELY SIXTEEN METERS,**" it said. "**FIFTEEN METERS. FOURTEEN. THIRTEEN. TWELVE. ELEVEN. TEN. N…NINE. NINE. N…N…NINE…**"

"What is the matter?" demanded Yama, one claw flying to the hilt of his blade. "Are we under attack?"

But Dingo, who recognized the symptoms, simply let out a low groan.

"**DETECTING ELECTROMAGNETIC…ELECTROMAGNETIC…ELECTRO…**"

"Oh, bugger," the mercenary unknowingly echoed, as their method of transport froze completely in the air.

Then, they began to fall.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Griff let out a long sigh as he looked upon the sleeping Merlin. But, figuring he had no choice, he poked the wizard in the side.

Probably harder than was strictly necessary.

"Zounds! Sir Griff, might I suggest _not_ jabbing awake the wizard who can reduce you to jelly with two words," groused Merlin, stumbling to his feet and smoothing out his robes. "Not that I'm feeling all that mystically inclined right about now."

He emphasized the point by holding up his palm and tensing up his fingers, as if expecting sparks or flame to spit from the skin. Nothing happened.

"You're completely dry?" said Griff, frowning. "I was hoping the _one_ advantage of stumbling across your sour bum was a quick way out of this nightmare."

"Sorry to disappoint you, then," the mage returned, with a weary sigh. "Energy is energy, gargoyle. I haven't eaten, I've barely slept, and my attempt to rectify the latter issue was rather _rudely_ interrupted. I may have deeper reserves than the average sorcerer, but even _mine_ aren't limitless."

"Can you move, at least?" asked Griff. "Because this _really_ isn't a safe spot to take a kip. The madman who built this place is keeping tabs on us – probably from a hidden control room or something – and there's another one stalking the halls with the strength of two gargoyles, and the endurance to match. Not to mention a big honking gun."

Merlin tested his feet, gingerly…and almost immediately lost his balance, collapsing back to the artificial ground in a heap.

"I'm only going to slow you down in this state," he lamented, shaking his head bitterly. "But if I rest a little longer…maybe I can pull together the magic for _one_ more spell. Is your pursuer far?"

"I think I gave him the slip for a bit, but he's clearly a persistent bastard. He'll track us down sooner or later. And we don't _have_ 'later' – dawn's coming any time now," said Griff. "But…fine. I guess I don't have any better ideas."

He leaned up against a (presumably) fake tree, trying to keep an eye on as much of the "forest" as possible.

"I'll take lookout duty. You can get some shuteye while the coast's still clear," he added, after a pause.

But Merlin, who was again reclining against the same wide rock, slowly shook his head.

"Can't risk being asleep when you turn to stone," he told the gargoyle. "But remaining still while I gather the requisite energies should be almost as effective. Keep me talking – I don't want to wind up dozing accidentally. Had enough of _that_ in the Cave."

"Yes, because that's certainly what I need. You to talk _more_ often," Griff sniped, before placing claws over his eyes and sighing. "But…I suppose I haven't exactly been helping matters. All these snide remarks. I'm not usually like this, you know? Even with blokes I don't care for. But something about the way we bounce off each other…"

Merlin shrugged a shoulder. "Back in the day, there were _plenty_ of knights I didn't much get on with," he said. "Lancelot especially, and _not_ for the reasons you might think. I'm used to it."

Griff sank back against the artificial trunk, letting himself settle into a seated position as well.

"You don't get it, wizard," he murmured. "As a hatchling, I grew up hearing tale after tale of the great King Arthur. His gallant knights, his honorable queen. And at the center of it all…his ever-faithful mentor. The wise and noble Merlin. I worshipped you all, _idolized_ you."

"And then you come to realize…we were really just people," cut in the wizard, folding his hands across his staff. "Nothing more, and nothing less. We were just as fallible as anyone else – maybe even more so."

"I…I understood that. I _do_ understand it," responded Griff, though his slight stammer arguably told a different story. "Camelot fell, after all…much as I wish it hadn't. But still, nothing prepared me for that first moment when we walked into the Crystal Cave. I expected a calm, brilliant sage, and what I got was…"

"A grouchy, crotchety old man," Merlin finished for him. "Mind, I'd be the first to remind you I'm very much _both._ Sort of comes with the territory."

"Look…I know you had to spend the past how-many centuries stuck in that pit. And unlike Arthur, you didn't have the luxury of sleeping through it. Can't even _imagine_ how that must've felt," said Griff. "But when _that's_ your first impression of a bloke you've spent all your life building up in your head…the greatest wizard who ever lived…"

The gargoyle knight clenched both fists, directing his gaze downward, before continuing in a quieter voice, "And then…there were the Camelot ruins. I _know_ you were under a spell. I _know_ you weren't responsible for your actions. But…you still came _this_ close to killing him. To killing the liege I've pledged my life _and_ honor to protect."

Slowly, Merlin began to reach a hand toward the London gargoyle, but when Griff turned to face him he immediately withdrew it. Instead his expression became downcast as well – and when he spoke, it was with none of his usual, superior bluster.

"I've failed him enough. And you've already spoken of the results. The last time I erred, Camelot herself was the casualty," he whispered coolly. "For the mistakes of a student are but reflections of his teacher. And the mistakes that brought fallow the first Round Table…were the sort my magicks are powerless against."

Merlin turned his head, affixing Griff with beady, worn eyes.

"I know you have never cared for me, Sir Griff. But whether I adequately demonstrate it or not…" he said. "I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. As I have respected _all_ of Arthur's knights, whatever our…_personal_ differences."

Griff met the magician's gaze, and was silent for several moments. When he spoke again, it was with words very carefully chosen.

"I…I see," he replied. "Then it that case, wizard…"

But he never got a chance to finish that sentence. Because in that moment, the ceiling rumbled violently, and the artificial sky it displayed began to flicker in and out, making it clear it was only a giant screen.

"It seems our brief reprieve has come to an end," declared Merlin, gripping onto his cane and rising unsteadily once more.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"Shite…I know from experience that Matrix's nanites freeze in their current configuration when exposed tae an electromagnetic pulse," said Hunter, albeit with difficulty. As the ball-form Matrix tumbled through the air in freefall, its teammates within were being tossed about the enclosed space rather violently, like flakes in a snow globe. "Yama, Yuir Majesty…d'yeh think yeh can cut through befaer we land?"

"Emphasis on the last part!" Fang squealed, as he fought to extricate his wing from that of a rather irritated Yama. "_Really_ not looking forward to finding out if ol' Bot-Boy is splat-proof!"

"Excalibur is empowered by its magic scabbard, to cut through just about any surface," answered Arthur, his own voice slightly muffled by Hunter's errant ponytail, which'd flown into his face. "But would that not harm your compatriot?"

"Matrix don't feel no pain, coppah. Not unless he's interfacin' with my nervous system, anyway," Dingo told the king. "Cuttin' out a few thousand of his nanites is like…losin' a strand o' hair for us."

"In that case…shall we, warrior of the rising sun?" asked Arthur, turning his head toward Yama as he drew Excalibur.

Despite their predicament, Yama found himself smiling, just a bit. "I'm not sure that's a title very appropriate for _tengu,_" he returned. "And yet, there is certainly…_poetry_ in it. I match my blade to yours, Pendragon-_daimyō._"

It was hard to gain enough leverage to swing their swords while tumbling about, but eventually both blades struck true. The nanotech "bubble" was cleaved open – exposing the quintet inside to the yawning chasm below.

"We, uh…" said Fang with a gulp. "Didn't really think this through, did we?"

But they didn't have time to reevaluate their plans. Matrix's turbulent spinning soon tossed its occupants out of the freshly opened hole, joining it in freefall.

The pit they were falling down was incredibly dark and narrow, only perhaps two or three meters across. The claws of both Yama and Fang seized the nearest wall, finding purchase in the hardened stone, while the three humans were forced to hold onto their teammates for dear life.

Only Matrix was left to continue falling into the shadows below.

"We'll come back for ya, mate!" Dingo called down, his head contorted in an odd position to avoid the fact that he was currently hanging from Fang's…_lower_ area. "An' _now_ I'm offerin' words o' comfort to a Windows '98."

"Hey, not for nothing, but…you guys _really_ could use a salad or two," Fang remarked loudly – earning a dirty look from Hunter, who was also gripping onto him. "How long are we gonna hang around like this? Heh heh…get it? Hang around…"

"Given how far we've already fallen, I think it best we climb downward rather than up," said Yama, ignoring the "joke" (for lack of better term). "But I'm uncertain our stamina will hold until we reach the ground – assuming we even _are_ above ground. And if dawn should come while we're still in this position…"

These were all very practical concerns, and each of the five were at a loss to provide any immediate answers.

But they didn't wind up mattering, for a reason that was initially signaled by Arthur asking, "Do the rest of you hear something?"

That's when an enormous hunk of muscle slammed into the gargoyle and mutate alike, falling through the air feet-first – as if he'd casually walked right off the edge of the pit above, and allowed gravity to do the rest.

It turned out, a few seconds later, that they really _weren't_ very far from the bottom of the chasm. Unfortunately, this was because they tumbled straight out of it and into the room below, a chamber filled from top-to-bottom with multicolored, psychedelic spiral patterns.

And a floor that was still at least a hundred meters below them.

Fang and Yama both tried to flex their wings, but it was no use – their assailant had grabbed onto all _five_ of them without missing a beat, and was maintaining an iron grip, as if engaging in the world's most deadly bear-hug. It seemed as if he was determined that they _all_ hit the ground together, with the speed and force of a charging locomotive.

Hunter and Dingo reached for their guns, and Arthur and Yama their blades, but the giant's hold was so tight they could barely move. Desperately, Fang began charging energy into his hand, and it was to this that their enemy finally spoke.

"I would not recommend that course of action, monsieur," he said, in a voice like stone scraping leather. "It will be no more effective than your valorous friend's attempt – unless your goal is to shock all your _allies_ into unconsciousness."

"Who are yeh? Why are yeh doing this?" demanded Hunter, struggling mightily to escape the giant's grip, to absolutely zero avail. "Are yeh working with…"

But she stopped, as she saw – jutting out rather prominently at the awkward angle she was being held at – the gilded belt buckle fastening their attacker's faded workman's jeans, the only piece of clothing he was wearing.

The buckle displayed a glowing eye atop a pyramid.

"Yet another Illuminatus. Our foes grow stranger by the moment," observed Arthur, who'd clearly noticed the same.

"Yay, we know who he works for!" Fang exclaimed with a snarl. "Unfortunately, that ain't really solving the minor issue of careening to our deaths at_ eighty eight fudging miles per hour!_"

That speed was definitely an exaggeration, but it was absolutely true that they were flying toward the ground at an alarming rate. Second by second, the surface below grew closer and closer, until even the nigh-unflappable Robyn Canmore was forced to shut her eyes, readying herself for the inevitable.

Which is how she nearly missed the tendrils of metallic, silvery goop taking hold of them.

The Hunter's eyes snapped open. Below them, Matrix – having clearly shaken off the effects of the EMP – had taken a form almost akin to an enormous sea monster, right out of the legends. Its "puddle" of nanites had spread, in just a few seconds, across nearly the entire floor, and great flailing tentacles stretched up from its core, at least a dozen in all.

Then, in the blink of an eye, several tentacles converged on their position, seizing all six falling figures by the waist and forcibly wrenching them apart. Their attacker was flung a good distance away, while King Arthur and the remainder of the Redemption Squad were gently deposited onto Matrix's surface.

"Bleedin' hell," said Dingo, whose face had turned a delicate shade of green upon touching solid ground again. "Remind me never to piss ya off, mate."

"**THAT REQUEST IS ILLOGICAL, DINGO,**" Matrix replied, its voice echoing as it rapidly dissipated millions of nanobots, shrinking back to a humanlike form. "**I DO NOT POSSESS THE EMOTIONAL CAPACITY TO BE 'PISSED OFF,' AS YOU TERM IT.**"

"Thank Peter, Paul, an' Mary for that," muttered the former Pack member. "Anyway, got any data on Mr. Gruesome over there?"

"**NEGATIVE. HOWEVER, MY NANITES WERE ABLE TO PERFORM A QUICK ANALYSIS OF HIS BODY WHEN WE WERE BRIEFLY IN CONTACT,**" explained Matrix. "**HE APPEARS TO POSSESS HUMAN ORGANS, INCLUDING SKIN. HOWEVER, THEY ARE ALL ENGORGED TO A SIGNIFICANTLY ABNORMAL SIZE. ADDITIONALLY, WHILE HE POSSESSES CIRCULATORY AND RESPIRATORY SYSTEMS, THEY DO NOT APPEAR TO BE FUNCTIONING AT PRESENT.**"

"Wow. Guess we were overdue to fight a zombie sooner or later," Fang drawled, somehow sounding both terrified _and_ bored. "But now that our silvery pal here has gone Super Saiyan, we got nothing to worry about, right? Uh…_right?_"

He added this question because their foe had already managed to recover, as if he _hadn't_ just been slammed into a wall with the force of a speeding bullet, and was now stalking toward them, unslinging a heavy weapon from his back as he did.

"**UNFORTUNATELY, HIS FIREARM SEEMS TO BE THE SOURCE OF THE ELECTROMAGNETIC PULSE THAT RECENTLY AFFECTED MY SYSTEMS,**" Matrix informed the mutate. "**MY UTILITY IN THIS BATTLE MAY BE LIMITED.**"

"And there may be one other…_complicating_ factor," said Yama, his voice regretful.

Hunter turned to ask the gargoyle what he meant…

But by that point, his skin was already frozen in stone.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Merlin frowned, as he pulled out something that might've been a pocket watch from his robes. "Might" was the operative term, since the device had about five times as many faces, attachments, and other assorted gadgets as a clock probably should.

"By my calculations, the sun should've just risen," he told Griff. "But you haven't yet turned to stone?"

"Jet-lag," said Griff offhandedly. "New York's five hours behind Paris. Doubt it'll actually take me five hours to fall asleep – gargoyle bodies are constantly adapting to the Earth's natural rhythms – but I've got at least a _little_ time left."

He clapped the wizard on the back, before adding, "Memory's not what it used to be, old man? Same thing happened to us in New Orleans. Or were you too busy binging on beignets to notice?"

Merlin scowled a bit, but did not respond. Instead, both he and the gargoyle knight looked up at the glitching ceiling, where some kind of heavy impact had left cracks in a large portion of it.

"What do you think?" Griff asked, looking ponderous. "Do we stand our ground, or make a run for it? Fairly certain Sir Ugly is right above us."

But that decision was made for them as, through the cracks, they overheard a muffled scream of pain. A very _familiar_ scream of pain.

"Your Majesty!" the London gargoyle cried out, all thoughts of his own safety forgotten. "Blast it…only one way to get up there."

Then, before Merlin could raise an objection, he aimed his lightning gun at the cracks in the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

Crackling energy spat from its electrodes, impacting the already weakened material and causing it to crumble to pieces. Those pieces, many of them the size of a small car, cascaded down upon the artificial forest, crushing the "trees" to paste and kicking up an enormous cloud of dust.

When it cleared, the shards of ceiling had formed a pile high enough to reach the ceiling.

"That was, without a doubt, the single most _reckless_ and _foolhardy_ act I've ever seen a knight perform. And Galahad decided to sit his arse on a chair that _killed_ everyone else who tried," said Merlin. "Still…I cannot argue with the results. To Arthur's side, gargoyle."

Griff cast a glance back at the mage, looking hesitant for a moment…before offering a claw. "Might be a bit of a tricky climb in your…_condition,_" he murmured. "Come along, then. I'll help you up."

The pair made their way unsteadily up the pile of rubble, Griff's eyes on his companion at all times, ensuring he wouldn't fall. But despite his limping gait, Merlin never once slipped, forging on with renewed purpose in his eyes.

Finally, they made it through the hole and into the upper chamber, where their senses were immediately overwhelmed.

It was a sprawling vision of psychedelia, as if ten thousand tie-dye shirts had been loaded into a cannon and splattered all over the floor, walls, and ceiling. And in the midst of it all, three warriors were engaged in simultaneous combat with the enormous assassin.

"Harry Monmouth. Robyn Canmore. Falstaff spoke quite accurately of your skills," spoke the giant, parrying shots from both – a high-tech boomerang and a projectile net, respectively – with two swings of his massive, meaty arms. "And of course, it is an honor to match my own might…"

And here, he caught hold of Excalibur as its wielder charged him from behind, neither reacting to nor even acknowledging the deep gash it left in his palm. No blood streaked from the wound.

"…Against the Once and Future King," he finished, before sending Arthur flying with a bone-crushing haymaker.

Griff was already rushing to his liege's side before his body even hit the ground, leaving Merlin behind. The brute looked his way, but was prevented from pursuing as Hunter and Dingo renewed their assault.

"Sir Griff…and Merlin, as well…" said Arthur, coughing roughly as his knight helped him back to his feet. "You should retreat. This foe is after your blood, not mine."

"Bollocks. I became a knight to fight at your arm, not to cower away in the corner," Griff responded swiftly. "And it looks like I'm not the only one. When'd those Redemption chaps show up?"

"In the very nick of time, per the usual," Arthur stated, nodding approvingly as Hunter traded acrobatic blows with the giant, while Dingo laid down covering fire around them. "They are pursuing the enemy who disguised himself as Lady Blanchefleur. 'Fantômas,' they call him."

"Yeah, we definitely had…_words,_" growled the London gargoyle, recalling the disembodied, French-accented voice with distaste. "And I've gotten up close and personal with his 'friend' over there, too."

Said "friend" had just managed to swat both his opponents aside with a great swing of his weapon, using the gun like a bludgeon. They landed a short distance away, next to three figures Griff had missed until now in all the chaos.

The knight let out a small gasp as he recognized his friend Yama, immobilized in stone sleep. The Parisian dawn had indeed arrived.

Next to him, the obnoxious mutate Fang appeared to be nursing a head injury, but still stood sentinel by his teammate, protecting him from their hulking enemy. Meanwhile, a cloud of those same electrified balls he'd used against Griff were holding what appeared to be a silvery pillar in place.

But even as he watched, Griff saw the electrical field begin to wear off, the "pillar" stretching and flexing until it took the shape of a featureless human. At the same time, both Hunter and Dingo rose back up, forming a defensive line with their teammates.

"Didn't expect to see you blokes in a place like this. But I won't look a gift beast in the maw," said Griff, as he and Arthur moved to join their formation as well. Then, he turned to the brute. "Gonna be a little tougher to off me now, eh?"

Their foe remained still, his expression impassive. Though admittedly, Griff wasn't sure he _had_ any other expressions.

Eventually, in a rumbling voice, he answered, "I am confident I could meet any combination of you on the field of battle. But as a unit, working in concert? Those are less compelling odds."

Then, before any of them could say anything, he turned his head off to the side and called out, "Fantômas, it pains me to make this request…but I think I shall require some assistance."

"Be careful, all of you!" exclaimed Merlin, hobbling up to meet the rest. He tapped his cane twice, hard upon the ground. "Something's coming, I can sense it!"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with an audible lurch every spiral pattern in the chamber – at least a hundred in all, spread up and down and all around – began to spin.

It was a dazing, almost hypnotic sight, to the point that it nearly hid what was actually happening. For the center of each spiral was actually an aperture…and every single one had now opened wide.

The first hint of what was coming was the sound. It was a sharp, metallic clicking, like chirping insects resonating against steel. Then, a few seconds later, they emerged.

They were robots, each the breadth and height of Goliath. Their limbs were far slimmer, however, and were winding and spindly things, composed of three separate joints. It allowed them to contort themselves like circus acrobats, crawling about at rapid speeds with sharp, silvery claws.

The nearest one twisted its head nearly three hundred and sixty degrees, its utterly blank face regarding them with cold, clinical detachment.

Then, it flexed those same claws, extending each one to at least two feet in length. Around it, a hundred identical automatons did the same.

"I understand that you are the ones who destroyed their prototypes, back on Eastcheap Island," said the giant, holding his own weapon at the ready. "But Monsieur Leonardo has made a _great_ deal of improvements since."

[-]

**Haneda International Airport, Tokyo**

**September 29, 2000**

"_Last call for Flight 542, departing nonstop to Paris."_

"Your tea, miss," a flight attendant offered demurely, bowing her head.

The requesting passenger took the steaming cup with refined, graceful hands, returning the stewardess' respect with her own bowed chin and a gentle, "Thank you." Even those simple words were spoken with such beauty, such elegance, that it sent a shiver up the attendant's spine.

She cut a stark contrast from the other occupants of the first class section – all of whom, man or woman alike, were dressed in sharp business suits.

_This_ passenger has a rather more…_unique_ presence. It wasn't just her flowing white, traditional robes, marking her unquestionably as a _miko,_ or shrine priestess. Or the lengthy, padlocked suitcase she insisted on carrying with her, and which a hundred thousand yen had allowed her to carry straight past airport security.

It was the look in her eyes. A sense of definitive _purpose,_ which the stewardess couldn't help but simultaneously be drawn into…and recoil far away from.

Whatever reason she had to visit the City of Lights, it clearly _wasn't_ for pleasure.

"Once we're in the air, would you mind procuring me a bowl of water? While this is hardly the ideal setting, I must insist on a chance to purify myself _before_ we land," she said, offering a high, lilting laugh that didn't quite reach those cold, determined eyes. "After all…"

She lifted the steaming cup to her painted lips, blew upon it delicately, and then took a single sip. When she completed her statement, it was in a voice so low the stewardess could no longer hear.

"The _tengu_ is a sacred beast. To slay one is a sin that will require my thorough absolution."


	4. Episode IV: The High Priestess

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode IV: The High Priestess**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Atsuta Shrine, Nagoya**

**September 29, 2000**

"Man, can you believe it? A real-life shrine maiden! Wanted ta meet one o' you evah since I _came_ ta Japan!" said a young man in hurried Japanese, one hand placed awkwardly behind his head. "Err…I said it right, didn't I?"

He'd actually pronounced it _mikō_ rather than _miko,_ but of course the priestess was far too polite to correct him. It was generally frowned upon in her line of work to be _too_ honest with foreigners, even when asked.

Instead, she bowed low and told him, "Grigori-san, your mastery of Japanese is very skillful. Please do not be self-conscious around me. I am but your humble guide to this storied shrine."

Vinnie Grigori offered her a winning, if more than slightly goofy, smile.

"Aw, thanks! You don't know much that means ta me. Been he'ah fo' ye'ahs now, an' I still nevah quite felt like I belong," he went on, a bit distantly. "But then…haven't really evah felt I belong _anywhe'ah,_ y'know? S'jus'…"

He seemed to realize he'd been rambling, and flushed. But the priestess just chuckled lightly in response, a pleasant and melodious sound.

The American was clearly a bit sweet on her, which was hardly unusual. Her face was unquestionably beautiful, preserved at the tender age of thirty-three – and of the _many_ masks she'd worn across her life, among the most frequent had been courtesan.

But the physical act was one thing. She'd been trained, intimately, in the arts of allurement; in promising, with eyes and hands and secret smiles, without ever having to speak a word.

She could tell however, just by looking, that "physicality" was not what this man sought. He was a romantic, if something of a simple one. If he was to muster the necessary courage, he would suggest a nice dinner, perhaps a trip to the theatre. It would be flattering.

And also completely out of the question.

"Let us turn ourselves to business," she said, gently but firmly guiding the conversation back on-topic. "You're here to pick up the package for Bushido Concepts, Grigori-san?"

"Oh…Oh, right! Can you believe it? I almost fahgot!" exclaimed Vinnie, with another nervous laugh. "Some Chief o' Secah'ity I am! Megumi…oops, _Miss Shih'akawa_…she's gonna have a fit if I come back emptyhanded…"

"Curious," remarked the priestess, whose back was now turned to him as she slowly climbed the shrine's steps. "I have never known Shirakawa-san to lose her temper with anyone."

"Wait, hold up. Y'know Megumi?" Vinnie asked, looking curious. "I guess I did find it kinda weih'd she asked me ta go ta a _shrine_ ta run an eh'and like this. You two friends o' somethin'?"

A raised, billowing sleeve covered up her bemused expression as she answered, "Something like that."

With that, she disappeared into the bowels of the shrine's _Bunkaden,_ or treasure hall. Several moments later, she emerged with a small, heavily wrapped package.

"I believe this is what your employer is looking for," she murmured, placing it into his waiting hands with the utmost care. She didn't miss the way his skin shivered slightly when they made contact. "And to answer your earlier question…there are few safer places to hide something of value than this venerable shrine. Normally I would chafe at the use of such sacred ground as a glorified safe deposit box, but out of respect for the…_deference_ Bushido Concepts has shown in the past, we return the favor in kind."

"Oh yeah! Think I read 'bout that once. You got one o' those…what's the wahd? Reh-gay-lee-uhs?" said Vinnie, tapping at his chin. "Y'know…that swohd. The one that came outta the big snakey-thing."

"You speak of _Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi._ Pulled from the corpse of the great eight-headed serpent Yamata no Orochi by Susanoo, god of sea and storms," replied the priestess. "One of the Three Imperial Regalia of Japan…and guarded, indeed, within the bosom of Atsuta."

"But the ahticle also said no one evah actually gets ta _see_ the swohd," Vinnie pointed out. "So how d'you guys even know it's still he'ah?"

There was a twinkle in the priestess' eye, as if she was enjoying a joke she chose not to share.

All she said, however, was, "How indeed."

Vinnie was clearly still confused by her cryptic answer, but before he could inquire further, a series of light beeps interrupted them. They formed a tune that sounded like it could've come straight out of a samurai period drama.

"Ah. My utmost apologies, Grigori-san," murmured the priestess, bowing again. She pulled a cutting-edge cell phone from her voluminous robes; the contrast it drew from her attire as a _miko_ was rather galling. "I must excuse myself to take this."

"Oh, uh…yeah, o' couhse…" Vinnie tossed off, clearly rendered even more wrong-footed than usual by the abrupt dismissal. "Got what I came fo' anyway, so…be on my way, I guess…"

But then, unexpectedly, as the priestess had just about disappeared into a private chamber, she heard him call out, "Wait…one mo'ah thing! Umm…could you…could you tell me ya name?"

She paused, just for a moment, at the top of the shrine's steps. One hand already gripping the sliding door that would bring an end to this encounter.

To his question, her only response was, "I forsook the blessings of a name a long time ago. I am but a humble maiden, pledged in service. I have no need to be anything else."

And indeed, it'd been literal _centuries_ since she'd actively used the name history most directly associated with her. To be certain, it wasn't that she wholly and truly rejected it – her friends and allies in the Society needed _something_ to call her, after all – but it was rare these days for her to speak it herself.

After all, it was a name bound inextricably to…_him._ The one and only man she would ever love. And the man she'd spent over four hundred years avenging.

There was one title, however, that she _did_ answer to. It was shared with others, but to the priestess, that only made her bond with it stronger. It was a reminder that she played upon a far greater stage than one widow's vendetta.

And it was with that title that she answered the ringing phone: "Ten."

Less than an hour later, the assassin who'd once been called Chiyome Mochizuki was boarding a plane for Paris, several dozen weapons stashed neatly in a case beneath her seat.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

It became clear rather quickly than in upgrading these robots from the "previous model," speed had been the factor most heavily prioritized.

They moved like lightning, scraping and crawling about the floors, walls, and ceiling like a bunch of overgrown, metallic cockroaches. Not only did their triple-jointed limbs allow them to leap at least twenty feet in a single bound, but they were capable of hovering in midair, without any visible form of propulsion.

All these were details Dingo became rather acutely aware of as they beat the crap out of him.

It'd been a while since he'd fought this much _without_ merging with Matrix, and he was beginning to realize just how much he'd come to rely on its power in a crunch. Unfortunately, the nanobot construct was spending every few minutes getting intermittently frozen in place by their foe's electric weapon, so he couldn't risk it.

Sans any kind of armor, Dingo was forced to fight with the bolas and boomerangs he'd favored in his "pre-upgrade" Pack days, plus the martial arts that he was forced to admit – begrudgingly – had improved greatly during his time with the Squad.

Hunter was a ruddy pain in the rump, but he couldn't deny her "drill sergeant" style training regimen was the main thing keeping him alive right now.

The Squad needed to keep mobile, because staying in one place for too long was a good way to get dogpiled by a dozen robots at once. Relying on sheer numbers, they pounced like predators scenting blood, ripping and tearing away with their razor-sharp claws.

So far, Hunter was the only one of their group these tactics favored, her lithe body weaving and bobbing through the maelstrom of automatons like it was nothing. King Arthur was weighed down by his own heavy armor, while Griff and Fang had their movement impaired by injuries.

Dingo had held his own well enough for the first few minutes…until the brute somehow managed to get the drop on him, and delivered a blow that turned his right arm to splinters. How a nine-foot-tall giant was so good at being sneaky was a puzzle he was still trying to unravel.

Regardless, between the distraction of the pain and the difficulty of having to fight one-handed, Dingo was very quickly growing overwhelmed by the robot swarm. Eventually, inevitably, one got through his defenses…

And sank three, vicious claws right into the mercenary's side.

Dingo sank to his knees, the din of the battle fading to a distant echo as he screamed out in pain. He couldn't actually hear his own voice, but he could _feel_ his mouth open wide, his entire body growing cold and numb.

What he _did_ hear, somehow, was a panicked, "_Harry!_"

His vision was rapidly becoming a blurry mass of colors, so it took him a moment to register what happened next. Hunter was making a beeline for his position, dodging or sideswiping every robot she encountered as she barreled her way through.

And then, just as the robot that'd wounded him raised its bloodstained claws to finish the job…Hunter seized it from behind and tossed it right over her shoulder, slamming it hard into the spiral-patterned ground. She followed up with three point-blank shots from her gun for good measure, reducing its "head" to scrap.

He looked up at her, blearily. No words came to his lips, and he wasn't sure he would've been able to vocalize them if they did.

Hunter, for her part, simply reached down and took him by the shoulder. "Judo's about leverage, not strength," she said, deciding to explain the one thing he _wasn't_ utterly confused about. "Taught yeh that on our first day ae training, remember? Now, get along, yeh big oaf…"

With considerable effort, she managed to hoist him to a standing position. He was able to put weight on his feet without too much trouble, but the blood loss still had him feeling incredibly woozy. Hunter sighed and, in a single motion, tore off a large portion of her uniform's sleeve, which she gave him to press into the wound.

"Steady now, mullethead. One foot in front ae the other," she continued, using one arm to help prop him up and the other to cover them using her gun. Fortunately, it didn't look like any of the other robots had noticed their vulnerable position yet.

_Un_fortunately, the unit she'd just put down was beginning to stir. Despite its heavy damage, it soon rose up again, apparently undeterred by its utter lack of a head.

"These things dinnae know when tae quit," Hunter sniped, preparing to turn her sights back on the robot. Before she could line up a shot, however, Arthur suddenly struck from behind, cleaving it in two with Excalibur.

"Blast these machine devils," he muttered, before looking back at Hunter. "Lady Canmore, I shall keep your way clear! Concentrate on bringing your paramour to safety."

Even with his vision blurred to almost nothing, Dingo didn't miss the reddening of his field leader's cheeks.

"He innae my…_ack,_ nevermind!" she said, averting her eyes from the both of them. "Less just get on with it!"

It was slow goings, but with the king providing them with cover, the pair eventually managed to make it back behind the "front lines." Here, Fang was shooting out frantic electric blasts to defend their two noncombatants – the sleeping Yama and tapped-out Merlin.

"Oh, great! Just what we need, another patient! What does this look like, M*A*S*H?" complained the mutate, as he knocked back a robot that got too close with a sweep of his wing. "Not enough I gotta babysit Yamster and the old fart…"

Merlin shot him a look, to which Fang quickly appended, "Ah, fine. _Advanced age_ fart. PC enough for ya, Dumbledore?"

"I…I can…bloomin' take care o' myself…" Dingo coughed out, though the fact that he collapsed the moment Hunter loosened her grip didn't help his case.

"Fang, just keep _this_ one from doing anything stupid, a'right? That's an aerder," she told the cougar-mutate, her attentions turned back to the chaos of the battle. "Yuir Majesty, we need tae get back out there. These things are clearly targeting yuir gargoyle knight."

And indeed, Griff was currently facing nine of the robots at once, blasting left and right with his lightning gun and grappling with the handful that managed to pierce his defenses. It was a daring sight, almost awe-inspiring – but also one that, clearly, couldn't be kept up forever.

"He has defended my life, and my honor, more times than I can count," said Arthur. "I will not shy away from this opportunity to return the same. Lady Canmore, will you fight at my side?"

"To save a gargoyle's life?" she asked in return, eyes tensed beneath the slash-mark mask that marked her as a Hunter. "I cannae think of a maer appropriate penance."

[-]

**Palais Garnier, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

While all this was going on, ignorant of any of the frenetic action raging on below, Lady Blanchefleur had been hard at work breaking into Paris' most famous opera house.

This'd been a far easier prospect for her than her doppelgänger, since the sun had since risen and the Palais was presently open to the public. She'd managed to slip in with the first tour group of the day, her distinctive golden hair pinned up and tucked into a baseball cap to deflect any prying (and "all-seeing") eyes.

"The Palais Garnier was originally called _La Salle des Capucines,_ but soon found its present title in recognition of its architect, the legendary Charles Garnier. Construction began in 1861 and took fourteen years, before it opened to the public with a magnificent gala featuring overtures from Auber, Rossini, and Halévy, among others," explained their tour guide. "This was despite nearly a year where construction had to be halted, due to the Siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian War."

Fleur nodded along, only half-listening, her focus on the various nooks and crannies they passed as they roamed through the halls. Unfortunately, her group was small enough that slipping away would likely be noticed immediately.

One of the tourists, whose manner of dress and Texan drawl marked him as distinctly American, raised his hand and said, "I heard tell this place was built right over a big, underground lake. Y'know…from that play? Reckon that's true, or what?"

The tour guide pursed her lips, the universal sign that she'd received a question she was tremendously tired of.

Still, as politely as she could, she answered, "While it's true that groundwater was found close to the surface when digging the foundation, Garnier was able to deal with the issue with a number of intricate systems. A water course directed the water away from the basement walls and into a reservoir, where it could be used as an emergency supply. Which only fueled legends about labyrinthine chambers and secret passageways built underneath the opera house – ones popularized by Gaston Leroux in his _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra._ All fanciful nonsense, of course."

At this, however, the former Illuminatus was unable to keep from rolling her eyes. She'd known Garnier personally, after all. Seen his frustrations with constructing the complex, double-layered foundations firsthand.

And been the one to "suggest" – as an assignment from her then-husband – that he contract the work out to a little-known mason, then going by "Erik," who took no credit and no payment, professing to labor purely out of love for the craft.

Which was true, to a point. He (or possibly "they"…even _she_ wasn't certain if Fantômas was one man or several, and they'd met on at least six separate occasions) saw no value whatsoever in fame or fortune.

But that hadn't stopped him from using the opportunity to "slip in" an entire, mazelike lair directly beneath the Palais. One Fleur was now desperately trying to locate.

She couldn't be _certain_ it was Fantômas who'd absconded with her allies, but it seemed a fairly good bet. Arthur, Griff, and Merlin were an incredibly savvy bunch, all things considered, so to be able to impersonate _her_ so flawlessly that they hadn't noticed…

Only the elusive Phantom Thief possessed both the skills and the knowledge to pull off _that_ trick.

Of course, while she knew _of_ Fantômas' twisted, surrealistic hideaway, she'd never actually visited it herself. Any of these doors, paintings, or sculptures could be hiding a secret entrance to the chambers below. And she didn't exactly have unlimited time to search.

"_Griff and I are on the same time zone, so he'll probably turn to stone around the same time I do,_" said Lunette, via Fleur's LexPhone. The newest model had a detachable earpiece, which she'd surreptitiously slipped beneath a lock of hair. "_I'd like to imagine he'll find a safe place to sleep in time, but if he thinks he's with a friend…_"

"Just to be on the safe side, little one, check in once a minute. A simple 'here' will be fine," whispered the blonde woman, into the equally inconspicuous microphone. "That way, I'll have some way of telling when your biological clocks have caught up."

"_Got it. And don't worry, Lady Fleur. You'll find them in time, I know it,_" Lunette told her.

Unfortunately, the young gargoyle's unshaking faith only made Fleur feel even guiltier. This was all her fault, after all. Macbeth had gotten their "party" all the way across the Atlantic; she'd been responsible for just the short, final leg. If she simply hadn't been running late…

Fleur shook her head and let out a sigh. There was no helping it. Samantha – Jeanne – had needed her. Needed to talk about the struggles of living as a double agent. Needed to confess that it was far more trying, mentally _and_ physically, than she'd initially anticipated.

Despite how long she'd served with the Society, the poor girl simply wasn't cut out for skullduggery. It just wasn't within her nature.

(Sometimes, Fleur envied her for that.)

In any event, she supposed there really wasn't much point in dissecting "what-ifs." All she could do was focus on fixing things going forward.

Which meant locating Fantômas' lair, and saving some of the only people left in the world she still trusted.

"Now, several efforts have been made to modernize the Palais since its initial construction. The first electric lights were installed in 1881, and elevators were added in the 1950s. The electric work was subsequently upgraded in 1969," the tour guide continued on, breaking Fleur out of her reverie. "At present, there's an ongoing, comprehensive restoration effort that began in 1994, and is expected to be completed in…"

But her words drifted off as they passed an open doorway. On the other side, a minor scuffle was underway between a burly security guard and a lanky, pockmarked teenager. The teenager was clearly very animated about something, while the guard just stood there stoically, holding the boy in place by the collar of his shirt.

Eventually, the guard's patience seemed to reach its end, as he calmly and unceremoniously escorted the teenager out of the building. Every eye in the tour group, meanwhile, was watching on as this unfolded.

"Any idea what's going on there, little lady?" asked the Texan tourist, dipping his ten-gallon hat toward the scene.

The tour guide rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed by the commotion distracting her audience from her dry history lesson.

"Just a delinquent. He's been trying to get in the building all morning. Ranting about how he saw a shirtless, three-meter-tall giant with a massive gun break in here last night," she said shortly. "A little too much _vin,_ if you want my opinion."

Fleur had stopped listening after the physical description, however. There was exactly one non-gargoyle she knew who fit those parameters. But what reason would there be for Fantômas and Adam Prometheus to be in the same place at once?

Unless…

The blonde's mouth widened, as she realized exactly _whose_ assignment this must be.

Her mind was racing now. The Society would never, in a million years, order a hit on Arthur or Merlin. She knew, intimately, that their plans for the king and his wizard were far _worse_ than death.

Which left only one possible target.

By the time the tour group turned the next corner, Fleur had disappeared from the building completely. She no longer cared if her absence was noticed. The tour guide clearly wasn't with the Society; she was far too dull for the job.

Instead, she raced out to confront the pockmarked teenager, before he could make it too far from the opera house.

"_Excusez-moi,_" she murmured, stepping in front of his path. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"

The boy seemed utterly stunned that a female member of the species was even speaking to him, but once he picked his jaw up off the floor, vigorously nodded.

"_Merci_, monsieur," she said, choosing to ignore all this. "Now…where _exactly_ did you see the giant go?"

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

With just Arthur, Griff, and Hunter facing off against nearly a hundred robots – not to mention a nigh-invincible, indefatigable juggernaut – the odds were stacked against them.

They'd managed to take out about a dozen units in the earlier part of the fight, and on occasion Matrix was able to swallow up a few more, in the precious seconds after shaking off an EMP.

Unfortunately, a few seconds was usually all they had before the giant fired off another volley, and Matrix was removed from the fight yet again. Whether intentionally or not, the brute's weapon was a near-_perfect_ countermeasure against the Redemption Squad's most powerful member; it had most electric weapons, like Griff's lightning gun, beat in sheer voltage by many degrees of magnitude, and its cloud-spread pattern made it nearly impossible to dodge.

Fang was doing his best to cover them from the rear, but with three bodies to look after, the very most he could do was play defense. It was up to the other three to serve as their front line.

That was, unfortunately, far easier for Griff and Hunter to accomplish than it was for King Arthur, simply by virtue of possessing ranged weapons. While Excalibur cut easily through every robot it touched, the machines moved so quickly that the sword rarely managed to connect.

Despite the power of the blade, or the blessings of its scabbard, its wielder was still only human.

"I will not…allow this…" grunted the king, between heavy slashes. "I will not allow you to harm my First Knight!"

"I'm afraid you do not get a choice in the matter," said the giant, who was simply walking forward through a volley of gunfire from Hunter, without slowing a single step. "Nor do any of us, truly. This is a cold, purposeless world. The only meaning we may find in it…is that we impart ourselves."

"And this is yours, is it?" demanded Griff, standing back-to-back with his liege as he kept the mechanized siege at bay with one shot after another. "Killing me to satisfy your bloody masters?"

He and Arthur had noticed the pyramid-eye belt buckle as well.

"You know nothing of the Society. What I was before they took me in," the brute called out, as he finally closed the distance between himself and Hunter.

The field leader threw down her useless gun and readied a fighting stance…to which he simply backhanded her with an enormous fist, sending her flying.

"I was nothing. A directionless wraith. A bundle of rage and pain and sorrow, abandoned by a race I wanted nothing more than to be part of," he went on, now storming toward the other two combatants. "Doomed never to find a companion like myself…for the only man who could possibly craft one, I had led directly to the doors of death."

He picked up the chopped-off arm of one of the automatons, and tossed it like a discus. It hit its mark with utmost precision – Griff's already broken tail. The gargoyle went down, roaring in agony.

"I was convinced that the only option left for me was that of oblivion. To plunge myself between the ice floes, so that the world would never again know the curse of my existence," said the creature, as he stood once more before King Arthur, Excalibur at the ready.

Without a second's hesitation, he simply picked up the mighty king and tossed him bodily in the opposite direction, before turning back to the injured gargoyle.

"You see the Illuminati as your enemy. I see them as the people who found a lost, misshapen monster, and gave him a reason to continue on in this world," he finished, before reaching down to seize Griff by the throat. His enormous fingers squeezed like a vice, causing the London gargoyle to cough and sputter. "So if they say you need to die, valorous one…then it is my duty to oblige."

Griff thrashed mightily against the giant's grip, but his vision was already dimming. He felt his lightning gun tumble from his shaking fingers, as the world grew increasingly dark and cold.

Then, suddenly, he collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. Right at the cusp of his victory, the brute had released him – but _why?_

The answer became obvious when his eyes turned to the spot where Arthur had been thrown. His king, still dazed by the blow, was being beset by three robots, their claws poised to strike. Griff struggled to find his gun, but his talons grasped only empty air.

"_No!_" he bellowed, right before the machine brought down its arm.

But then, something unexpected happened. A burst of metallic balls forced the robots to stumble back, away from the downed king. Then, a second later, electricity arced between each one.

The trio of robots fell to the ground, completely still.

Griff looked up to the giant in confusion, unable to comprehend what he'd just seen. The creature hadn't stepped in when Dingo was similarly threatened. Did this mean Arthur truly _was_ "off-limits" for elimination by the Illuminati?

If they were indeed run by a former Knight of the Round Table, then perhaps…

More to the point, though, this was the first time he'd seen those robots take a single hit, and _stay_ down. The electricity from his lightning gun or Fang's palm-blasts was enough to stagger them, but little else. It seemed, then, that these things were just as vulnerable to an EMP as Matrix was.

They just needed the right amount of juice.

Griff locked eyes with Hunter, who was in the midst of recovering from her own beatdown. They both nodded to each other, wordlessly settling on a plan.

Then, Griff leapt forward, tackling the giant from behind.

Well…he tried to, at least. Their enemy was several hundred pounds of pure muscle, and it felt rather like Griff had launched himself directly into a brick wall. Still, it was enough to make the hulk briefly stumble.

Hunter launched into action immediately. Getting a running start, she actually managed to sprint _up_ the giant's body, gymnastically vaulting herself over his shoulder and across his back. As she did, a combat knife cut clean through the straps keeping his weapon secure.

"Matrix, now! Swallow it!" she shouted, as the blaster collapsed to the ground with a resounding _clang._

They'd timed their attack perfectly, it seemed – for at just that moment, the nanite construct managed to break free from its paralysis and stretched forward, draping itself over the massive gun and sucking it up like a vacuum.

"**TECHNOLOGY INCORPORATED INTO MATRIX DATABASE SYSTEMS,**" it said. "**HOW SHOULD WE PROCEED, HUNTER?**"

"Isn't it obvious?" she exclaimed, as the brute managed to grab hold of her by the leg, and flung her like a ragdoll into the nearest wall. She impacted with a sickening crunch, but still kept speaking – albeit, with difficulty. "Y…You…You need to…drop the balls…"

If the situation were different, Griff might've snickered at that – and even while fighting for his life, he could hear that Fang _definitely_ did. Thankfully, the "person" she was speaking to didn't have a sense of humor.

Instead, it asked, "**THE RELEASE OF AN ELECTROMAGNETIC PULSE OF SUCH MAGNITUDE WILL LIKELY RENDER MY OWN NANITES INERT FOR A NUMBER OF HOURS. ARE YOU CERTAIN THAT IS YOUR INSTRUCTION? I AM PROGRAMMED FOR SELF-PRESERVATION, IN ABSENCE OF A COMPELLING ALTERNATIVE DIRECTIVE.**"

"Mate, if ya don't do this, law an' order's gonna get a new hole torn in its bum!" Dingo cried out, from the spot where he was still recovering. "Oh, an'…we'll probably all die. So that's a thing. S'truth, not really a big fan of that option."

"**THESE DIRECTIVES…BOTH…QUALIFY,**" stated Matrix. There was a brief halt in its synthesized voice halfway through, as if the word "both" was almost a question.

But that oddity was quickly forgotten, as the artificial intelligence wasted no more time getting to work.

Free from the danger of getting "pulsed" again, Matrix shifted into a massive, silver hammer and came down upon the giant's head, sending his hulking body flying like it was a twig. Then, it took to the air.

Once it was nearly touching the ceiling, its self-replication routines kicked into overdrive. It became a sheet and spread across the entire length of the chamber, darkening them with its shadow. Even the single-minded automatons were momentarily distracted by the sight.

And a moment was all Matrix needed to begin discharging small orbs from its own body-mass, unleashing a downpour of silvery rain.

The orbs stopped short of the actual robots, presumably so as not to risk shocking its allies. Still, the Redemption Squad fell flat across the floor, doing their best to ground themselves, with Griff pulling his king into the same position at the last second.

Immediately afterward, the entire room became a colossal storm of lightning.

There were ten, a hundred, a _thousand_ bolts coursing through the air at once, crisscrossing through and around each other like an intricate work of art. But Griff's eyes weren't on the electricity itself…but its effects.

Each and every robot still left standing in the chamber seized up, shaking violently as their systems struggled to keep up. But it was no use.

One by one, they collapsed into a mechanical heap, their functions completely shut down.

Unfortunately, they weren't the only ones. Affected by its own attack, Matrix lost the ability to combat gravity, and fell like a meteor toward the ground – "bleeding" nanites all the while.

When it finally landed at the feet of the injured Dingo, it was but a little gray puddle. Unable to do anything else, the mercenary placed protective arms around his inert partner, shielding Matrix from view.

"Ya did it, mate," he said, his voice remarkably soft. "Ya ruddy well did it. So take a load off, long as ya need. Ya earned this one."

"I suggest you don't crow too loudly," rumbled another voice, far deeper. "The automatons have already served their purpose. They've cut you down to numbers far easier to manage."

The heroes looked up, grimacing, as the giant stepped forward once more – his leathery skin singed, but otherwise unharmed.

"Enough games," he added to Griff, raising his now-unarmed fists and cracking them. Each knuckle sounded like a gunshot. "Let us bring this to an end, gargoyle."

[-]

**Palais Garnier, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

It was a very good thing that Fleur had run a fashion company for decades and, as such, had dozens of spares for most of her outfits.

Because crawling through the opera house's maintenance tunnels had _thoroughly_ ruined this one.

She found the whole situation almost amusing, as she proceeded forward with dirt, dust, and grime caking the high-end fabrics. There'd been a day, many lifetimes ago, when she would've been scandalized even to _look_ upon the clothes she was now wearing.

Fleur had spent a fair number of years, after all, playing the good Grail Queen. The prim and proper lady expected of her era.

It was the Society, for good and for ill, that was responsible for…well, at this point, _most_ of who she was. Practical. Down to earth. Secretive. More than occasionally, duplicitous.

That she now turned her skills _against_ the Illuminati didn't change how much it'd shaped her.

She had a good amount of time to reflect upon these things, because the tunnels running within and beneath the Palais were dark, winding, and oh-so-_very_ boring. The only thing interrupting her ruminations were Lunette's once-a-minute check ins.

"_Yup, still awake. I'm running short on creative ways to say that,_" the young gargoyle piped up in her ear. "_Any luck on your end, luv?_"

"Thanks to that kid, I know how Adam got in. But there's no way to tell where he went from there," said Fleur, as she passed a tunnel with a red mark on its side. She'd made that mark fifteen minutes ago, so she'd know which tunnels she'd already tried.

She turned around and went the opposite direction, scratching another line into the metal as she did.

"_You talk like you know this person,_" Lunette replied. "_Who is he, exactly?_"

"I know a _lot_ of people in the Society. Not all…but the major movers and shakers, certainly," answered the former queen. "You ever read Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein?_"

"_Oh, I love that book!_" exclaimed the gargoyle, and Fleur could almost hear her clapping her hands in excitement. "_Falcor's more into the cinema versions, but I dunno…I don't think any of them _really_ capture what Shelley was going for._"

"Ain't that the truth," Fleur murmured. "Well, if you're familiar with the source material, that makes this simpler. Adam Prometheus _is_ the creature from the book. And far more 'Shelley' than he is 'Universal.' A brilliant, unstoppable killing machine."

The former Three let out a heavy sigh as she plodded through the slightly damp tunnels, before continuing, "The Society's employed him for decades to…take _care_ of…threats a regular man wouldn't be able to touch. Vampires, zombies, evil spirits and the like. But he hasn't gone out on assignment in almost five years. They must _really_ want this target dead, if they're sending in him _and_ Fantômas."

"_And you're sure that target's…_" Lunette began.

"Sir Griff. I'd stake my own life on it," said Fleur, cutting her off. "You forget…I stood by Duval's side for a millennium and a half. I know how he _thinks._ He's obsessed with a shining image of Camelot, pure and untouched. Before the affair…before Mordred…before everything fell. He'll do anything to get it back. _Anything._"

"_That's why you don't think he's going after King Arthur or Merlin,_" the young gargoyle surmised. "_But Griff…wasn't there back then._"

"Which is why my ex-husband will see him as expendable. He represents the future, and the Illuminati are all _about_ clinging to the past. About preserving the status quo, and guiding humanity's progress along the lines _they_ choose," explained Fleur bitterly. "It's why they make themselves immortal. Egos so big, they're certain the world couldn't _possibly_ survive without them."

Fleur sighed again as she came to a fork in the tunnel. Arbitrarily, she chose the left path, making another mark on the wall as she did.

"That's not even the worst part, though," she whispered, holding the tiny microphone close to her mouth. "Adam and Fantômas are as different as night and day. They're certainly not friends. Fantômas is a maniac; a psychopath. He plays by no rules except the ones his crazed mind chooses to invent. Adam…he may stand against us, but he _does_ have a sense of honor. He isn't a monster, whatever the stories might say."

"_Then why are they working together?_" asked Lunette.

"Only one explanation. One thing that connects them," said Fleur. "Both studied under Hassan-i Sabbah, once upon a time. This is _his_ assignment. _His_ assassination."

"_Oh, I remember that name! We were talking about it on the flight over here! Goliath had a book about him,_" Lunette offered, excitement getting the better of her again. "_But what does he do for the Illuminati?_"

"Hassan organizes the Society's Assassins. He literally invented the term," Fleur told the gargoyle. "Franz Ferdinand, Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi, Queen Min, King Henry IV, Malcolm X…his agents weren't _directly _responsible for every political killing in the past nine centuries, but he's played a hand in just about all of them. And it seems Griff's is the next name to make his list. Which presents a whole new problem."

Fleur could almost hear Lunette's furrowed, worried brow ridges as she murmured, "_What do you mean?_"

"I've known Hassan for a very long time. And I can count on one hand the number of men who are more dangerous, if pushed into a corner," responded the former queen. "He _never_ does anything by half-measures. Meaning…"

She glanced to her side as she passed by a slightly crooked tunnel. The sight of a red mark elicited a whispered, "_Merde_…" under her breath, before she turned her focus back to the microphone and finished her thought.

"Meaning those two probably won't be alone."

[-]

**Airspace Above Beijing, China**

**September 29, 2000**

"You really are such a clever young woman," the shrine priestess said to her stewardess, as she sipped from a fresh cup of tea. "Your talents are wasted on these menial tasks."

The flight attendant averted her eyes, flushing. She already felt awkward enough, having been chatting with this single passenger for nearly an hour.

"I've, err…never really thought of myself as talented," she mumbled. "My whole family thinks I'm nothing but a screw-up…"

"Ah, but that's precisely your advantage. No one would see you coming," insisted the priestess, the corners of her mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. "Now, my dear, have you ever given thought to a…_change_ in careers?"

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Things were not going well.

The giant's most recent attack had left Robyn bruised and bloodied, her bones cracked in at least three places. With Dingo similarly indisposed and Matrix reduced to a puddle, that left only Fang, King Arthur, and his knight standing.

None of whom were exactly in top fighting shape, either.

It was only Arthur's furious offensive with Excalibur that kept the remaining trio alive at all. Their foe was undeterred by cuts or scrapes inflicted by the blade – of which there were quite a few, each dripping slightly off-color blood – but seemed unwilling to test what a full-on slash might do.

As hardy as his skin was, it seemed the greatest sword in history was hardier.

Unfortunately, besides Excalibur, they were running low on weapons that could actually _do_ something against the brute. He continued to shrug off blasts from the lightning gun or Fang's bioelectricity like they were light gusts of wind, and Griff knew better than to try fighting him hand-to-hand again.

On top of it all, the loss of his blaster seemed to have somehow rendered their enemy even _more_ deadly. What he'd lost in offensive power, he more than made up for in sheer speed; no longer weighed down by all that metal and circuitry, he moved nearly as quickly as Fantômas' robots, swinging fists like sledgehammers at anything within reach.

"You do realize, gargoyle," he said, as Griff dodged one of those bone-shattering blows by a hair's breadth. "That this won't end here? Even if I should somehow fail, more Assassins will come. No one survives a contract from the Great One."

"Great One? I suppose that is what you call your Illuminated master," declared Arthur, between sword-slashes. "But no matter how many of your infernal compatriots come for my First Knight, I will fend off each and every one. Any man, woman, or gargoyle who chooses to stand at my side…I will stand at theirs, just as steadfast!"

"Right you are, Your Majesty!" Griff called out, as he swung around the detached arm of one of the robots as an improvised weapon. Its claws weren't _much_ more effective than his own, but at least it granted him a little extra range. "There's _nothing_ the two of us can't do together!"

As if to emphasize the point, he and Arthur struck with their weapons in unison in a one…two…three-point combo. On the third blow, they followed up with a swift, simultaneous uppercut to the brute's jaw – and though it hurt like the dickens, it actually caused their adversary to _stagger._

Their feeling of brief elation didn't last long, however. The giant recovered almost immediately, before picking up several pieces of mechanical debris off the ground himself, and chucking it in three separate directions.

_Bam_…the first hit Hunter before she could line up a covering shot with her gun. _Tong_…another struck Dingo straight in the face, knocking him back down and preventing him from doing the same.

And the third…he'd aimed at the frozen form of Yama.

What happened next seemed to surprise everyone in the room besides the assassin – including, it seemed, Fang himself. For the mutate had, without hesitation, thrown himself in the way, blocking the flying hunk of metal with his own body.

"Ow…Owchies…" he grumbled, sounding more than a bit loopy as he collapsed to the ground, at Yama's stone feet. "You better…appreciate this…Yamster…"

A second later, he was unconscious.

"You say the two of you, together, cannot be stopped?" said the giant, turning their attentions back to him. "That is a very good thing, if true. Because 'the two of you' are all that is left."

There was a moment of pure, haunting silence, as their enemy readied himself to close in for the final blow. Then…

"Oh, I don't know. I think maybe you should work on your counting, Monsieur Prometheus," came a light, feminine voice, from somewhere up above.

That was all the warning Lady Blanchefleur gave before she landed straight across the giant's back, and jammed something small and thin into the nape of his neck.

The hulking creature writhed and bellowed in pain, perhaps the first time they'd ever heard him raise his voice above speaking volume. Then, he collapsed forward, falling to his knees.

For several, pregnant seconds he knelt there, perfectly still.

Until finally, the forces of gravity did their work. Their juggernaut of a pursuer gurgled out a mouthful of fluid, and crashed to the ground in a heap.

"When Adam joined the Illuminati, his 'initiation test' was to allow us to do a partial autopsy of his body. How it worked, what made it tick…whether or not it could be replicated," she explained, tossing a small injector up and down in her hand. "Duval was worried he might turn against us someday, so he had Edward…well, I guess it would've still been Moreau then…whip up a counteragent. A formula capable of knocking even _him_ out for days."

"And you just happened to have that handy?" said Griff, a bit incredulously, as he and Arthur slowly got up off the ground. "Not that I'm ungrateful, mind, but…"

"Oh, not for him specifically. But it seemed a useful thing to swipe before I left. Been keeping it in my back pocket – literally – for emergencies," Fleur told him. "After all, anything capable of taking down Frankenstein's monster should be good for lesser threats, too. Like a pack of wild grizzlies."

It was at this point that Fleur looked around the chamber, taking everything in – from the wreckage of a hundred deactivated robots, to the numerous injuries sustained by literally everyone present, Merlin excluded.

She raised an eyebrow, turned to King Arthur, and stated, "Clearly, I've missed quite a bit here."

[-]

**Le Château de Macbeth, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"I'm, uh…I'm still here, Lady Fleur. Hopefully you can still hear me," said Lunette, for the fifth minute in a row without reply. She was starting to get worried.

Still, she supposed there really wasn't much else she _could_ do except wait, and keep up her steady string of check ins. She felt incredibly useless, serving no purpose in this rescue mission beyond that of a glorified alarm clock, but there was no helping it.

While there was no way to know _exactly_ when her jetlagged body was going to catch up with the sun, she had a fairly strong feeling it was coming quite soon. Going out to join Fleur now was only liable to get her, Liam, and Kelpie killed.

Naturally, she'd informed the other two London gargoyles straightaway of the imposter, and the former queen's valiant quest to bring her doppelgänger to justice. Kelpie, ever the optimist, was certain they'd return victorious, regardless of how many "assassins" or "deadly traps" or "high-tech gadgets geared specifically toward certain doom" they encountered.

Liam seemed to have settled for focusing on what little they _could_ do – which, in his case, was whipping up a great deal of "comfort food" so their friends and allies would have something to snack on, once this whole mess was over.

She'd also reached out to Gnash, via LexPhone, to see if he or his clan might have any helpful advice. Unfortunately, he still hadn't replied. Presumably, crime in New York had his claws tied again.

"Checking in yet again," she muttered into the phone, feeling a bit silly for how long she'd been doing this without a response. "_Please_ answer, Lady Fleur. I need you to be okay. You and Griff and King Arthur and…"

But she was interrupted by an alert icon on the screen. She selected it, and re-opened the "chat" function.

_**TimeLad:**__ sorry L_

_**TimeLad:**__ stakeout just got waaaaaaaaaay more complic8ed_

_**TimeLad:**__ lets just say_

_**TimeLad:**__ this triad makin moves on dracon_

_**TimeLad:**__ they got a dude who can do ****in MAGIC!?1_

_**TimeLad:**__ im used 2 wizard gangstas in the 2050s, noooooot so much here_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ No, no, it's alright!_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ I hope you all are safe!_

_**TimeLad:**__ lex got burnd a bit, but nuthin 2 bad_

_**TimeLad:**__ amps makin it waaaaaay bigger than it is_

_**TimeLad:**__ but thats just…amp_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Thank goodness._

_**TimeLad:**__ how bout u_

_**TimeLad:**__ i red ur earlier msgs_

_**TimeLad:**__ they back yet?_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ I wish. But I've lost contact with Lady Fleur, and time's running out. Griff and I could turn to stone at any moment, and if he's truly who those assassins are after…_

_**TimeLad:**__ hey…chin up_

_**TimeLad:**__ 2 borrow a britishism_

_**TimeLad:**__ griffs a big boy w big friends_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ True…but that doesn't keep me from worrying. I just wish there was something more I could do, you know?_

_**TimeLad:**__ o trust me_

_**TimeLad:**__ been there_

_**TimeLad:**__ been THEN_

_**TimeLad:**__ done that_

_**TimeLad:**__ u no how long i bouncd round the time stream b4 i could get my folks 2 even THINK of givin me my own sword_

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ I guess I never thought of it like that._

_**IntoTheBiscuit:**__ Hold on…I need to do another check in. Be right back._

But though Lunette raised the LexPhone back to her mouth, she never got a chance to provide that final check in.

Because in that moment, her body at last encased itself in stone.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

Over the next several minutes, Fleur, Arthur, Griff, and the (conscious) members of the Redemption Squad worked to fill each other in about the events of the previous night.

By necessity, it was an abridged retelling on all sides. They were still, for all intents and purposes, behind enemy lines. Unfortunately, the number of their group capable of moving independently no longer exceeded the number who couldn't.

Meaning that, for the moment, they were pinned down. With nothing to do _but_ share information.

"Shave my face an' call me the Little Boy from Manly," said Dingo, shaking his head as he looked upon the unconscious giant. His broken arm, now secured in an improvised sling, hung low across his chest. "We were fightin' an honest to goodness Hollywood horror show."

"Well, Adam's not very big on the 'Hollywood' versions – though he's got something of a soft spot for Mel Brooks – but otherwise, yes," Fleur replied. "Thankfully, it seems you all managed to wear him down a fair bit. I doubt I could've gotten the drop on him otherwise."

"Yeah, we _definitely_ had that guy on the ropes," drawled Fang from the ground. They'd managed to rouse him from unconsciousness, barely, but he was still rather groggy. "By the end, he was _this_ close to chipping a nail!"

"Certainly, I shudder to imagine who else this 'Hassan' you described might have at his disposal," Arthur mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "First the mimic, and then this colossus. Are there any others we should be prepared for?"

As he said this, he gestured to the catatonic Adam, who was sprawled out only a few feet away. Even while completely still, his hulking body was incredibly unnerving.

"Between members of the Society and freelancers he's trained at one time or another…I'd say around a hundred _Hashashin_ still live?" answered Fleur, after thinking for a moment. "Thankfully, most are significantly lesser threats than Adam here. Only two or three I'd consider more deadly. And one of those broke away from Hassan centuries ago."

"Still, we shouldn't let down our guard," said Griff. "Especially when we have no idea when I'll conk out. Once I turn to stone, they'll have a good eight hours to take a whack at me."

"_Merde_…that reminds me. I've missed a few check ins. Turned my LexPhone off when I spotted Adam, in case it gave away my position," Fleur muttered to herself, fishing the device out of her pocket and powering it back on.

She pressed a few buttons, then held it up to her ear and asked, "Little one…Lunette. Are you still there?"

A few seconds passed, before her attention snapped back to the beaked gargoyle. "I think there's a good chance, Sir Griff…" she added, her expression hardening. "That you're going to fall asleep any second now."

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Then, in a voice that seemed remarkably carefree given the circumstances, Griff responded, "…Ah. Jolly good, then. Just one thing I still have to take care of."

Then, with quick, purposeful strides, he made his way over to the place where Merlin was standing in silence.

And punched him straight in the jaw.

"Blimey…" he said, shaking off his knuckles as he took in everyone's shocked – or in Fang's case, mildly impressed – expressions. "You have no _idea_ how long I've wanted to do that."

Naturally, that was the very moment his body chose to fall into stone sleep, a roguish grin frozen upon his face.

[-]

Arthur was the first to race to his mentor's side. The blow from his First Knight had knocked Merlin flat on the ground, and the old wizard coughed and sputtered as he took Arthur's proffered hand.

"I apologize profusely for my knight's actions," he told Merlin, still scarcely believing what he'd just witnessed. It had all happened so fast. "I knew that he bore you a certain degree of animosity, but I never imagined…"

"Bah. I've dealt with worse, and you know it," said the mage, waving a dismissive hand. "Isn't the first time I've been decked by one of your knights, and it won't be the last."

"Still, this is not conduct befitting a warrior in my service. I will speak with him once he awakens," Arthur insisted, shaking his head as he looked upon his petrified knight. "Of course, that will need to wait until we've escaped from this deathtrap…"

"Now that the rust buckets are dealt with, I'll handle guarding the gargoyles. About all I _can_ do, with my magic still drained," replied Merlin, more than a little bitterly. "So go on, Arthur. No need to worry on my account. You and the others should concentrate on finding us another way out."

As he spoke these words, however, the timeless king's expression shifted noticeably. He narrowed his eyes and peered at the wizard, as if seeing him for the very first time.

Then, without any warning at all, he pulled his arm back…and sank his own fist into Merlin's well-worn face.

This second strike, its impact amplified by the ring on Arthur's finger, sent the mage flying at least a foot. But that wasn't the only thing it did.

"Y'know, it may just be my two black eyes playing tricks on me," said Fang, who was still sprawled out on the floor. "But does the geezer's face look like it's, uh…?"

He didn't need to say it, because it was visibly obvious to anyone looking on. The folds of Merlin's skin were _riding up,_ like ill-fitting socks.

Hunter wasted no time in dashing forward, seizing the wizard's face, and pulling upward.

With a sickening peeling sound, it all came off.

From the neck down, the figure on the ground was still the arch-magus Merlin. But his entire head, from crown down to neck, was wreathed in pure black fabric, betraying none of the features underneath. The only accoutrement was a silvery-blue domino mask, which was worn where eyes would presumably be – though there were no eyeholes visible beneath.

"_Je ne me suis pas inscrit pour cela,_" he stated in cold, monotonic French.

"Sir Griff must have noticed long before I did. But I knew as soon as you called me 'Arthur,'" the king explained, in answer to the unspoken question. "To Merlin, I will _always_ be Wart."

"Fantômas!" exclaimed Hunter, pulling out her sidearm and training it on him. "I shoulddae known yeh'd been here all along. But this is the end of the line. Yuir surrounded and outnumbered."

"…_On verra ça, Mademoiselle Canmore,_" answered the criminal coolly.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone from sight.

He moved, somehow, even faster than his robots. First, he scooped up the duplicate he'd used to mimic Merlin's staff. Then, less than a second later, he was standing astride the unconscious Adam, one foot resting upon the giant's muscular back.

"_Cela a été amusant, ma dame. Mais la discrétion est la meilleure partie de la valeur,_" said Fantômas, his words now addressed directly toward Fleur. Whether because she spoke French, or because of her past with the Illuminati, she wasn't entirely sure. "_Heureusement, ce jeu n'est pas à moi pour terminer._"

Despite their injuries, both Hunter and Dingo raised their weapons against the masked assassin, while Arthur drew Excalibur.

But before any of them could react, Fantômas raised the false staff high in the air…and broke it in two over his knee.

The reaction was instantaneous. Blaring alarms began to sound in all directions, the spiral patterns that lined the enormous room flashing a strobing red. Then, all at once, every point of entry in sight – from the hole on the ceiling the Redemption Squad had fallen through, to the openings the robots emerged from, to the maintenance shaft Fleur had used – shut closed, heavy steel shutters cascading down each wall.

Even the hole that'd been blasted in the floor, through which Griff and the fake Merlin had joined the fray, managed to seal itself vacuum-tight.

"_Ce labyrinthe sera votre prison impénétrable,_" he told his foes, and for just the briefest of moments, he allowed himself the tiniest of emotions "out of character"…in the form of a low, cruel laugh. "_Jusqu'à ce que la gargouille meure…aucun de vous ne reverra la lumière du soleil._"

With that, he tossed the sparking pieces of the staff to the ground.

Simultaneously, Hunter and Dingo squeezed their respective triggers. But their projectiles sailed through empty air, as a panel directly below the criminal revolved three-hundred-and-sixty degrees – moving Fantômas and the unconscious Adam into an unseen chamber.

Several moments passed as the alarms continued to echo throughout the now-sealed chamber, none of the heroes certain what to say.

At least until Fang called up from his prone position, "Okay, I didn't understand like…ninety-five percent of that. But I think I heard the word 'prison'…?"

[-]

**Airspace Above Tàiyuán, China**

**September 29, 2000**

The shrine priestess flipped through a French in-flight magazine, humming pleasantly as she absorbed an article on renovations at Notre Dame.

Though she was of course a Shintoist, by training if not inclination, she could appreciate the ornate beauty and quiet dignity of the Catholic monument quite thoroughly. It was rare, these days, that she got to travel outside of Japan. Surely, Hassan wouldn't mind if she stopped to take in a few sights?

_After_ the mission was completed, of course.

The soft plucking of a _shamisen_ interrupted her thoughts. She pulled a small pager from within the folds of her robes, and read the message upon it.

"Erm…I'm very sorry, ma'am," said the flight attendant, shifting around awkwardly. "But it's against policy for you to have those devices active during flight…"

Her breath hitched, however, as the _miko_ placed gentle but firm fingers across her arm.

"Oh, but it's such a _little_ thing, isn't it? Can't you find it in your heart to overlook it, just this once?" she asked, her painted lips curling into an inviting smile. "It'll be _our_ little secret. Just like we talked about earlier, remember?"

The flight attendant looked askance, flushing. "You…really want _me_ to work for you?" she murmured, all thoughts of the pager forgotten. "So much money, just to…to _watch_ the passengers?"

"And to report certain things to me. A stewardess in business class sees a great deal, day to day," the priestess explained coolly. "My favorite people in the world are those who no one ever seems to notice. Housekeepers, secretaries, sex workers…funny, how invisibility _so_ often tends to be the province of women."

She tipped her hand toward a man with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses, who was reading a newspaper several rows ahead.

"Let's say you were to reach into that man's pocket, and take his wallet," she went on, her voice low. "How long do you think it would be until he notices? And how likely is it that he'd realize _you_ were the culprit – the poor, timid, mousey stewardess who served him his drink?"

A shudder went up the flight attendant's spine, that had little to do with the temperature of the plane.

"Well…something to think about," said the _miko,_ seeing that her audience of one was struck speechless. "You have nearly nine hours left to consider my offer. It's not as if I can go anywhere until we land in Paris."

"I…I will, ma'am…" whispered the stewardess, before adding a hasty bow. "I…should go check on the other passengers."

And with that, Chiyome Mochizuki was left alone with the message on her pager. A special one, decorated – just like her phone – with the image of an eye atop a pyramid.

**THE TRAP HAS BEEN SET. THE REST IS UP TO YOU. ~F**


	5. Episode V: The Wheel of Fortune

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode V: The Wheel of Fortune**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Yasaku River, Mikawa no Kuni**

**May 19, 1573**

Chiyome Mochizuki sat at the river bank, tossing stones absently into the churning waters. There had been a great deal of rain recently, so the river was course and turbulent, swallowing each rock like a starving beast.

Which was just as well. The raindrops did a good job at hiding her tears.

A figure approached from the trees, setting down at her side. Though he was wreathed so thoroughly in thick robes that no skin was visible, she could tell simply by his posture that he was a foreigner.

Still, while heavily accented, his Japanese was pronounced flawlessly as he said, "I have kept an eye on you for many years, Mochizuki-san. And this is the first time I've seen you weep."

Any other time, Chiyome would've had a knife at the stranger's throat before he could utter two words. But though she'd easily detected his approach, she simply couldn't bring herself to take action. What would be the point?

Instead, her tones haunted and morose, she answered, "These are tears long since delayed. I did not cry when I lost my husband, because Shingen-daimyō offered me something far greater than mere grief."

"A chance at revenge, yes. I know your story well," spoke the stranger coolly. "How, in his service, you assembled an army of _kunoichi_ three-hundred-strong. Vagrants, war orphans, prostitutes. In this country, much as my own, to be a woman without status is to be practically nonexistent. You've taken full advantage of that fact…and brought many a rival of the Takeda Clan to their knees."

"But now my lord is dead. My girls are without a purpose," murmured Chiyome, before tilting her head toward the robed man. "And you're the one who killed him, aren't you?"

She said it with no emotion; no judgment. As if she already knew the answer, and had long since come to terms with it.

Two handed emerged from his voluminous robes, folding together. They were aged but surprisingly supple, and tanned by climates far from those of Japan.

"His assassin…was not one of my men. But I will not deny we played a role," he said, almost casually. "Nothing personal, of course. It is simply in our best interests that a unified Japan emerge under Oda Nobunaga. Without Shingen, the strongest faction opposing his campaign will crumble."

"Nobunaga-daimyō is a…_formidable_ leader," Chiyome responded, choosing her words carefully. "But I will not serve him. And I will not ask my girls to do likewise."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Supporting Nobunaga is a matter of pragmatism, not morality. We're well aware of his renowned brutality," declared the stranger, with a wave of his calloused hand. "Besides, we have _far_ greater plans for you than that, Mochizuki-san…if you'd be willing to listen to them."

The young woman narrowed her eyes – pools of brown so deep and dark, they appeared almost black.

"You keep on using that word," she told him, her lips barely moving. "Who is the 'we' you speak of? And who _are_ you, in the first place?"

At this, the stranger finally reached up, and pulled aside his hood. It revealed a man who was utterly unlike anything Chiyome had ever seen, in thirty-three years of life.

"You may call me Hassan-i Sabbah," he said. "And I have come to make you an offer."

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"I have just finished surveying each of the potential exit points. And I fear they are all sealed tight," stated King Arthur, frowning as he rejoined the rest of the group. "Whatever metal Fantômas has used for his barriers…even Excalibur failed to cleave through."

Fleur pursed her lips, looking pensive. "Magically treated, most likely," she replied. "Fantômas isn't a sorcerer, but the Illuminati have quite a few in their ranks. Mustapha's handiwork, I'd wager. Containment magic is his specialty."

"Who's…oh, never mind. If it's important, I'll find out," Fang tossed off, still lying flat on his back at the feet of the sleeping gargoyles. He hadn't moved an inch in the last hour.

"Long story short, means we ain't gettin' out anytime soon. Got it," said Dingo, who was busy cleaning his sidearm. Since one of his arms was still broken, this was very slow goings. "Bright side, gives us some time to unpack all the craziness that just happened. Case in point, sheila…why ya went so _bleedin'_ nuts when that bot was about to do me in."

"I _dinnae_ 'go nuts.' Bleeding aer otherwise," Hunter snapped, without looking up as she dressed her own wounds. "And that's a fine way tae thank me faer saving yuir sorry life."

"See what I have to deal with?" Fang asked loudly. "Look, we all know where this is going, so can you two skip all the BS and just _f_…"

"…Faerget about this. We need tae discuss strategy," Hunter quickly cut him off. "If our best weapon cannae get through those barriers, then there's only one other option I can think of."

She gestured to a silvery, unmoving puddle a few feet away.

"Still could be a while till Matrix is back up an' runnin'," muttered Dingo with a sigh. "Usually, he'd have an estimate down to the millionth decimal, but this time he jus' said 'hours.' Droppin' that EMP musta done a real number on him."

"Unfortunately, I am uncertain we have any choice _but_ to wait for your mechanical friend to reawaken," said Arthur. "Until then, we remain trapped. Which may have been the villain's plan all along."

Fleur paused as she examined the nearest steel covering, searching in vain for _some_ small weakness.

"Yes…and no. I don't think this was their Plan A, but they left the option open just in case they failed," she explained mutedly. "Best case scenario, Fantômas separates us, and Adam carries out the hit on Griff. I don't think they planned on Hunter's squad showing up."

"Yep, that's us. Screwing up the best laid plans of mice and mice-men since '96," drawled Fang.

"Point is, I doubt Hassan would've sent just _any_ Assassin on a mission like this. Only his best," Fleur continued on, as if she hadn't been interrupted. "But with Adam comatose and Fantômas' cover blown, he's lost two of his strongest cards. They might've just been the two close enough to get here in time."

"So this is all a stall," Dingo responded with a grimace. "Keepin' the prey caged up till they can call in backup from who-knows-where."

"A race against time, then," said Hunter. "What'll happen first? Uir allies awakening, aer…"

She crossed her arms and slumped back against a steel-reinforced wall, looking upon the three immobile members of their "team" – the sleeping Yama and Griff, and the inert Matrix.

"The arrival of their _next_ assassin?"

[-]

**Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

It was nearly six in the evening when the plane finally touched down in Paris. Local time, anyway – the priestess' body still believed it was 1:00 AM.

Fortunately, she was inured to things _so_ much worse than a little jetlag.

She'd left her number with that charming little flight attendant. Odds were good they'd never cross paths again, but one never knew.

These days, she had girls everywhere from New York to Berlin to Bangkok. Feeding her intel; passing along messages from the Upper Echelons; as an absolute _last_ resort, silencing those who couldn't be dealt with any other way.

But it never hurt to have a couple more.

Fortunately, Paris was no exception. She had fourteen "contacts" she could lean on in this city alone, ranging from phone operators to call girls to _literal_ French maids. None of them were the person who greeted her at the baggage claim, however.

Instead, that role was fulfilled by a young Frenchwoman in business attire, her blonde hair pinned up in a professional bun.

"Clemens-chan. It has been far too long," the priestess said with a bow. "Ten, by the way."

Samantha Clemens pursed her lips, before wordlessly picking up two of the other woman's bags. She left the largest, heaviest suitcase alone.

"Nine. And I am your _chauffeuse_ today, Ms. Mochizuki. Nothing more or less," she replied crisply. "And drop the 'chan,' if you please. Let's not pretend that we are friends."

"Oh, but not for lack of trying!" exclaimed the Japanese woman, an amused smile half-hidden behind her billowy sleeve as they walked out to the street. "I know we're both busy women, but that doesn't mean we can't have a social life. Come to Japan sometime. I can introduce you to some _excellent_ bars."

"I'll admit that being in your presence does increasingly make me long for alcohol," muttered Samantha with a sigh. "But I'm still going to decline your…_offre généreuse._"

They reached the car, a nondescript black compact. Samantha loaded the luggage with practiced efficiency, then climbed into the driver's seat.

"Suit yourself. But consider it a standing invitation," said the _miko,_ as she slid into the back seat and shut the door. She tipped a hand toward the nearest window. "These are tinted, I trust?"

"Naturally," answered Samantha, without turning around.

The Japanese woman pulled a duffle bag onto her lap. "Ah, good then. I'll likely need to be changing on the way," she remarked nonchalantly. "No peeking, you naughty girl!"

This finally managed to get a rise out of the normally unflappable Frenchwoman, who flushed crimson.

"I don't know what exactly you're insinuating, Ms. Mochizuki, but…" she began, before the other woman cut her off with a high, practiced laugh.

"Oh, come now. You stay a virgin for five-hundred-odd years and _some_ people are going to make assumptions," the priestess told her. "Even a title like 'Maid of Orléans' has its expiration date."

"Is it too difficult to accept that I simply take my faith seriously?" asked Samantha, pinching her brow.

"And I don't? Which of us is currently dressed as a shrine priestess?" the Japanese woman pointed out. "Besides, I have verifiable proof that at least _some_ of the _kami_ and _yōkai_ exist. But none of that affects what I choose to do with my body."

"Please. We both know your _miko_ robes are just another costume. One disguise among hundreds," said Samantha. "_Everything_ to you is a tool in your arsenal. Including your very flesh."

"And that's supposed to be a bad thing?" returned the priestess. "It's a physical act, natural as breathing. I derive no pleasure from it. Just one weapon, among many. And 'faith' seems a poor reason to sheath a weapon whose edge is still keen."

There was a lengthy silence between the two women, as Samantha fished for her keys in her pocket. It was only once she held them centimeters from the ignition that she whispered, "_None?_ Truly?"

The other woman shook her head, letting her long, silky black hair sway over her shoulders. She tilted her head toward the window, looking out wistfully toward the clouds.

"Sometimes, I feel as if I should've been born a _tengu,_" was her murmured reply. "In that sense, I feel we share kinship. Because I can't obtain a drop of pleasure from the act…unless it's with someone I love. And I haven't felt the dimmest embers of love in four hundred, thirty-nine years."

The silence that followed these words was even longer than the first. For lack of anything else to do, Samantha started the car, the engine rumbling to life.

"Where are we going?" she asked, very quietly.

"Oh, to the Palais Garnier," the priestess said promptly. Another lilting smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I feel like taking in a bit of _l'opéra_ while I'm in town. Won't that be fun?"

A prolonged chill ran up Samantha's spine, as her mind rapidly began putting together the pieces.

"You…don't mean…?" she breathed out, unable to finish the sentence.

"I believe you were the one who said, Clemens-chan…_ahem,_ -san…" interjected the Japanese woman, hands folding over a new outfit as she selected it from her duffle bag. "That your only role here was to be my _chauffeuse?_ Unless you wish to pull rank and _order_ me to unveil details? We're only one echelon apart, but I suppose…"

"No, no…that's fine," responded Samantha, shaking her head as she began to pull into traffic. "I think I have a fairly good idea what's going on now."

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

The humans (and one human mutate) had spent the intervening hours in their steel prison increasingly on edge, certain an attack could be levied at any second.

But as the hours dragged on, it became increasingly difficult to maintain their guard at all times. Exhausted, they were presently sleeping in shifts.

As Hunter, Dingo, and Fang all had significant injuries, they'd been allowed the lion's share of the rest time, once Fleur did her best to re-dress their wounds. She was hardly a medical professional…but it was simply one of those skills you picked up, when your husband had a penchant for losing body parts in battle.

Or sacrificing them for power.

They were alternating between two hours of sleep for the injured, and then one hour for the (relatively) healthy Arthur and Fleur. Having just been roused for their next shift, the pair were now sitting in front of the petrified gargoyles – one eye constantly on Matrix, hoping for their best chance at escape to _finally_ reboot itself.

Fleur checked her watch. "Less than an hour to Parisian sunset," she said. "We'll have _their_ gargoyle then, at least."

"Sir Griff should follow not long after. He has gotten so used to globetrotting with me that his body usually adjusts within a day or two," Arthur explained. "But until then, he is as vulnerable as a newborn. The Illuminati will surely not let this opportunity slip by."

"Yes, I'd have expected an attack by now. It's been a full eight hours since we took down Adam," Fleur replied, her brow creased in thought. "Given it's Fantômas we're talking about, I figured the _least_ that would happen is the room closing in on us at some point."

"Careful, Lady Fleur. If Sir Griff were awake now, he would say something about…_erm,_ testing fate?" the king told her.

Fleur covered a small laugh with her hand. "I think you mean 'tempting,' Your Majesty. But fair enough," she stated, her lip twitching upward. "Nevertheless, Fantômas clearly has a way to monitor this labyrinth. Even if he's given up on making a direct attempt – it'd be a little hard to kidnap and replace one of us now – he could still be watching us. The next assassin may've arrived _hours_ ago…waiting for just the right moment to strike."

At her mention of Fantômas' tactics, however, a dark shadow fell over Arthur's face. Fleur immediately knew the source; they'd discussed it on no less than three separate occasions that day, if only for lack of anything else to do while standing watch.

"I told you already, Your Majesty. Wherever the real Merlin is, they're _not_ going to kill him. Just like you, he's too important to the Society's plans," she attempted to reassure him.

The king let out a lengthy, rattling breath.

"I do not doubt your counsel, Lady Fleur. You know the machinations of Sir Percival's mind better than anyone else alive," he said. "Nevertheless, there are many things they could do to my teacher _short_ of death. Which is not to say that Merlin cannot take care of himself, but…"

"But that doesn't stop you from worrying. _Trust_ me, I understand," Fleur cut him off. "For much of your life, he was far more your father than that snake Uther ever was. It was much the same with myself and my uncle, Sir Gornemant."

To this, however, Arthur shook his head. "That descriptor is unfair to Sir Ector. Who – whatever his faults – saw fit to take me in and raise me alongside his own son, with no knowledge of my birthright," he corrected her. "What Merlin is to me…it is far different from a familial bond. In a sense, it is even _stronger._ I cannot quite put it into words."

"Bonds that defy the limits of language," mused Fleur, nodding along. "It's no wonder your First Knight in this era was a gargoyle. You've always had a bit of them in your head, I think."

"Merlin would agree – though he would consider that 'bit' to be a few shards of stone," responded Arthur, a bit of warmth returning to his voice.

"Well, if we're talking about rocks on the brain, you're still an improvement over the last man I followed," said Fleur, lips twitching once again. "Where it was more like a pile of giant boulders."

They shared a brief bit of mirth at this, though in Arthur's case it died down rather quickly. Because he'd been watching the still form of Matrix all this time, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement.

For a split-second, his heart jumped with elation – now, at last, they could free themselves! – but he soon realized the movement hadn't come from Matrix itself.

Instead, reflected in its silvery surface, he could see the hazy image of a black-clad figure. One that was taking position above and directly behind them.

Arthur didn't have time to react with any real forethought. In one, fluid motion he drew Excalibur, and leapt in front of Griff's stone form. And at the very same moment, the assassin took their shot.

It would've been a nearly impossible feat for any ordinary swordsman. But the blessings of Excalibur's scabbard – and the many years of experience he had with wielding it – let his aim strike true.

With the deafening _clang_ of metal-on-metal, Excalibur deflected the speeding projectile, sending it flying harmlessly aside.

He looked up at the assassin above, cold determination in his eyes.

"A shame, Arthur-daimyō," she said, holding a small bow aloft. "These bolts are specifically designed to pierce solid stone. I'd hoped to end the _tengu's_ life mercifully, without pain. As it is…"

With a small, humorless smile, she reloaded the weapon.

"This may wind up being a tad…_messier._"

[-]

This latest assassin couldn't have struck a starker contrast from Adam Prometheus if she'd tried.

Where the hulking creature had been massive, musclebound, and half-naked, this woman was thin and lithe, with all but her face covered in a plain black jumpsuit. She had very fair, smooth skin, with nary a blemish across her youthful features. Her long black hair was pinned up in a highly intricate style, reminding Arthur of pictures he'd seen of Asiatic noblewomen.

The only adornments to her suit were a variety of weapons so vast the king couldn't even _begin_ to count them.

Arthur had never seen this woman before, but based on her reactions, Fleur _very_ much had. The former queen took a cautious step back and shouted, "Chiyome!"

The assassin took on a bemused smile as she leaned down, curling across the ledge she was perched upon.

"Blanchefleur-sama! Oh, it's been ages! You look great, by the way," she said. "I never did thank you for dinner last time we did Ladies' Night! Remind me to pay you back after we're done here."

She spoke as if what she was "doing here" was picking up groceries, rather than a contract killing.

Before Fleur could offer a response, however, the sleeping members of the Redemption Squad began to rouse, alerted by all the activity. This was signaled by Fang loudly demanding, "_Daaaaaaayum_…who's the fine Oriental broad?"

"Oi, even _I_ know ya ain't supposed to use that word anymore," Dingo chastised his teammate, even as he and Hunter stumbled to their feet and drew their weapons. "But, y'know, the underlying question…I'd kinda like to know myself."

Fleur turned to the squad members. "Remember how I said there were only two or three assassins worse than Adam, and one had already defected?" she asked them.

"We're looking at the other one," guessed Hunter shrewdly. "Kindae figured that'd happen, if I'm being honest."

"Oh, and you must all be the fabled _Shōkan Buntai!_ Fantômas-san _said_ this'd be interesting," said the assassin. "We _almost_ ran into each other three years ago, did you know that? During that nasty business in Hokkaido. But I doubt you would've recognized me, even then."

"This is Mochizuki Chiyome," Fleur explained to the others, through gritted teeth. "The most infamous _kunoichi_ of the Sengoku Period, if only by default. More men have died by her hands – or those of the girls she trained – than I have hairs on my head."

"Can I get a translation for those of us _without_ a handy-dandy phrasebook?" asked Fang. "After all, our go-to one is kinda…_indisposed_ right now."

He rapped his knuckles on Yama's stone shoulder as he passed him.

"_Kunoichi,_" Hunter cut in, as she took aim at the other woman. "Literally, a female ninja."

Chiyome adopted a catlike grin. "Full marks, Canmore-san!" she exclaimed. "Unfortunately, it seems I'm fresh out of prizes to dole out. You'll have to settle for these."

With gloved fingers she grasped a zipper at her neck and began to pull downward, revealing more and more of her supple skin (and eliciting a hushed squeal of delight from Fang).

But as she reached into the jumpsuit, it soon became clear that what they'd all taken as the outline of a very impressive bust was, in fact…

A pair of large, ceramic orbs, with fuses she lit with a snap.

The heroes had just enough time to scatter before Chiyome tossed the bombs to the ground, filling the immediate area with smoke. Arthur, however, didn't move an inch, standing sentinel by the frozen gargoyles.

Which was why, half a second later, he was undergoing a brutal pummeling.

Under the cover of smoke, the Japanese woman had moved like lightning, striking Arthur's face and joints with expert precision. Each punch and kick felt like a snake bite, keenly targeted to the points where they'd make the most impact, and leaving the affected limbs flaccid and numb.

The king fell to his knees, Excalibur all but slipping from his grip, as simply keeping his fingers tensed became an incredible effort.

"What…What did you do to me?" he demanded, trying and failing to raise himself off the ground.

Chiyome, her face half-hidden by the smoke, flexed her slender arms. "Pressure points, Arthur-daimyō. You won't be able to move your arms or legs for the next several minutes," she explained, her voice light and cheerful. "Took some maneuvering to get around your armor, but I managed it. I have _very_ nimble fingers."

She pressed her bow directly into Griff's stone back, adding as she did, "Now, to bring this sad story to a…ooh, _close_ there!"

For before she could release her arrow, she'd been forced to acrobatically dodge a kick thrown by Hunter, whose prowess with martial arts was the only one that came _close_ to matching her own.

The two women traded blows, visible to the others only as shadowy outlines moving through the smoke. From their perspective, it was almost like an intricate dance, with each practiced movement flowing seamlessly into the next.

"You really are _quite_ good, Canmore-chan! I would've definitely taken you under my wing if you'd accepted Oldcastle-san's offer, way back when," said Chiyome, between strikes; Robyn noted, not too fondly, the change in honorific. "But it's never too late to change your mind. We could do some girl-bonding! Do you like karaoke?"

"Yeh know, faer a ninja…" grunted Hunter, as she took a blow to the knee that left her wobbling. "Yeh seem tae _talk_ an awful lot."

"What can I say?" the assassin returned with a smile. "I'm a people person. Oh…and don't think I can't see what you're up to there!"

Those last few words were directed to her left, and accompanied with a _shuriken_ that seemed to appear from nowhere. The star flew out in the blink of an eye and struck Dingo in his one good hand, forcing him to drop his weapon.

"Knew it was only a matter o' time," he grumbled, nursing at the wound the razor-sharp star had left. "Knew the way our lives pan out…was only a matter o' time 'fore we faced a _real_ evil ninja!"

"Oh, that reminds me!" Chiyome exclaimed, still in the midst of fighting Hunter tooth-and-nail. "_Loved_ your show, Monmouth-san. Unfortunately, the Japanese dub got canned two episodes in because of…well, you know. Such a shame! Norio Wakamoto did the narration, did you know that?"

"God's sakes, lady! Do you _ever_ shut up?!" called out Fang, punctuating his complaint with a blast of lightning the _kunoichi_ was forced to avoid with a graceful backflip. While the smoke hid him from view, it was obvious who the voice belonged to. "I can only forgive so much on hotness alone!"

Chiyome made a show of tapping thoughtfully at her chin, even as she contorted her body around Hunter's sweeping leg.

"Lout as he is, I suppose your friend may indeed have a point. I don't have time to play around with you all, much as I'd _truly_ like to," she said. "Now, if we're getting this over with…"

She did another elegant leap, this one rising nearly two meters into the air, while simultaneously pulling out a long reed. With a deep breath, she pressed her mouth against it, and blew.

The dart sank into Dingo's shoulder, and half a second later, another struck Fang. One was sent Hunter's way as well, though she managed to just barely dodge it.

Unfortunately, the blowgun's darts were fast-acting. Both the former mercenary and the cougar-mutate collapsed to their knees, suddenly feeling incredibly woozy.

"Don't worry, Canmore-chan. Just a harmless tranquilizer. While I won't shy away from it, I'm genuinely _not_ a fan of needless bloodshed," Chiyome told her one remaining opponent. "Now, with those _rude_ interruptions out of the way…shall we finish this dance?"

"Yuir one tae talk!" Hunter shot back, as she threw out a punch the assassin easily sidestepped. "Dinnae think I cannae see what yuir doing! All this chatter's just meant tae distract me, throw me off my game."

"And is it working?" asked Chiyome, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "I feel like it's working. In fact, I'm _pretty_ sure that…"

At that moment, out of nowhere, Hunter felt her body seize up. She looked down and realized what'd happened; she'd stepped upon a small array of caltrops, almost completely hidden by the patterns on the floor. The points where sharp enough that they'd gone right through her combat boots, piercing the skin.

"We call them _makibishi._ Literally, 'thrown water chestnuts,' since their seed pods were originally used for that purpose," said the Japanese woman, her tone as casual as if she was reciting the information off a Snapple bottle. "Oh…and you probably already figured it out, but they're coated with the same toxin that took out those sweet boy-toys of yours."

Hunter, already on unstable footing, began to tumble forward, grasping desperately for her sidearm but unable to get a good grip.

"Yeh planned this…the whole time…" she murmured. "When'd yeh have time tae lay that damn trap?"

"Oh…about five minutes ago. Right when I put up the smokescreen," Chiyome answered brightly. "Never hurts to be prepared, Canmore-chan. If you became one of my girls, I could teach you all _sorts_ of little things like that."

Robyn Canmore muttered a curse under her breath, and then fell still.

[-]

Smiling with satisfaction, Chiyome turned back to her unmoving quarry.

But once more, she found that the Once and Future King stood in her way, blade drawn – albeit, with a gait that was still decidedly unsteady.

"I must have spent more time with those children than I thought. You've recovered from my pressure point technique…if, perhaps,_ just_ barely," she said, raising an eyebrow as he wobbled in his stance. "Of course, that doesn't mean you're in fighting condition, Arthur-daimyō. For your sake, I suggest you stay _down._"

"For your _own_ sake, more to the truth," Arthur corrected her sharply. "It is obvious from your conduct – and that of your compatriots – that Sir Percival has forbidden that I come to harm. Which means there is no reason _not_ to throw myself ahead of my knight, time and time again!"

Chiyome swept her arms out wide. "Impeccable logic! Really, I'm impressed," she replied. "Unfortunately, there is _one_ little thing you forgot to take into consideration."

In a flash she produced a sickle and chain, which she flung in the king's direction. He moved to parry with Excalibur, but the angle of the toss changed in midair, causing the blade to slash him straight across the leg.

Arthur collapsed to one knee, bellowing in pain.

"What Duval-sama doesn't know…won't hurt him," she added coolly, pulling the weapon back to her with one swift, fluid motion. "So long as you make it out of this chamber alive, I have a certain amount of…_leeway._"

Once more, she readied the blowgun. But before she could raise it to her lips…

"_Échec et mat,_" spoke Fleur, as Chiyome felt a sharp point prick her arm.

The _kunoichi_ turned around to face her former superior, who'd just stuck her with one of her own caltrops. To keep from touching the poison herself, Fleur had utilized a half-wrecked robot claw as an improvised set of tongs.

"Clever as ever, I see," she said, her compliment entirely genuine. "I really have missed having you around, Blanchefleur-sama. Of course…"

And with a sudden flurry of movement, she twisted around, produced a _kunai_ from her sleeve, and jabbed it into Fleur's side.

"You _probably_ should've realized I've long since built up an immunity to my own toxins," she finished, leaning in so she could whisper into the former queen's ear. "Still, points for effort. I'll chalk up the error to life outside the Society making you rusty."

There was a short beat, as the two women – their faces barely three inches from one another – stared each other down.

Then, surprisingly, Fleur broke into a cool smirk.

"Which is why I dipped this one into a little something extra. I still had a few drops left from the syringe I used on Adam," she revealed.

The sensation hit Chiyome like a truck. Before she knew it, the world around her was quickly devolving into a blur of color and motion, and her normally impeccable stance was beginning to waver.

She could only take some small satisfaction that she wasn't alone. Both Arthur and Fleur were swaying on their feet just as much as she was now.

Because _of course_ she'd coated her blades with the same tranquilizing toxin as her other weapons. Why wouldn't she?

Together, all three of their heads hit the ground at once, each warrior slumping over in an exhausted heap.

For a time, every last soul within Fantômas' labyrinth was entrapped in slumber.

[-]

About forty minutes later, Chiyome's eyes popped open with a start.

A quick glance about the chamber confirmed that she was the only one. The king, the former queen, the Hunter, the mercenary, and the mutate…all were clearly still sleeping off the effects of her toxin. Even the AI construct remained inert, though who knew for how long.

The _kunoichi_ allowed herself a small smirk. Now was her chance.

For an improvised plan, it'd gone rather well. The formula Fleur had introduced into her system was _significantly_ more potent than her own; it'd have to be, to take down a being like Adam Prometheus.

Plus, her toxin was only intended to paralyze a target for a few hours at most. Absent any other factors, Chiyome would've been out for at _least_ three days.

Fortunately, she prided herself on her preparation. Sewn into her inner cheek was a pill that, in her last few seconds of consciousness, she'd ripped out with her teeth and swallowed.

She didn't entirely understand the science behind it, but the Doctor had described it in layman's terms as a "defibrillator in a bottle." While working its way through the system, it released chemicals that jumpstarted the heart, forcibly jolting her body awake after a brief delay.

The Japanese woman had gotten into the bad habit of using it as, essentially, an emergency alarm clock. But it worked quite well for these purposes, too.

With no one left to stop her, Chiyome took her time readying the chain and sickle again, this time favoring the heavy weight that hung off the other end. In a pinch, it was more than capable of smashing through solid stone.

"I will pray for the safe conveyance of your spirit, noble _tengu,_" she said as she advanced, whirling the weapon around in an arc above her head. "If only we had met under different circumstances. _Sayōnara,_ Griff-san."

With that, she let the chain fly free.

Chiyome, at least, hadn't lied about one thing. As she struck the final blow, she closed her eyes, offering a short prayer to the heavens. Though it wouldn't stay her hand, taking the life of this creature brought her no pleasure.

As her lips moved softly, wordlessly, her ears were anticipating the sorrowful sound of metal impacting stone.

But instead, what she heard was a sharp _clang_ – the same sound Excalibur had made intercepting her arrow.

When her eyes reopened, they bore witness to a swordsman who'd, yet again, saved the life of the gargoyle knight. But this one wielded no Celtic blade.

Instead, the brilliant sheen of a masterfully crafted katana blocked her path. A katana wielded by an entirely naked _tengu_ warrior.

"I am uncertain what you've done to the rest of my companions," rumbled Yama. "But I would not recommend taking another step."

Chiyome stared upon the gargoyle for several moments, entirely unfazed by his nudity; proof, since the Spell of Humility hadn't preserved his clothing, that he didn't think of his Redemption Squad uniform as part of himself. Instead she focused on his stance, which was oddly…

_Familiar._

"Who taught you swordplay, _tengu?_" she said coolly. "Umi-san of Ishimura, who learned at the knee of Hayashi-san?"

Yama's eyes widened. "How…How could you possibly…?" he demanded, his impeccable form briefly slipping from sheer shock.

The assassin chuckled, her wrist moving out of habit in front of her mouth, though she had no billowing sleeve with which to hide it.

"You clearly have _no_ idea how long your clan and I go back," remarked Chiyome, her attentions now piqued. Rather than kick herself for missing the gargoyle during her initial survey upon waking – admittedly, an elementary mistake – she found herself rather enjoying this encounter.

With a single, deft motion, she drew her own blade from its sheath.

"For example, did you know that I learned the way of the _katana_ at the side of a _tengu_ so skilled…" she added, smiling wistfully at the memory. "That she was even _named_ for the blade?"

Both warriors stared the other down, curved blades held at the ready. Without needing to ask, each bowed low.

Then, their steel met.

It was a clash that could not be done justice in words. Over and over again the swords crashed against one another, their bodies weaving about as they each fought to pierce through their opponent's guard.

If her battle with Robyn Canmore had been a Western-style dance, then this was more akin to _kabuki_ – a story told in each step, each movement, each angled slash. And she could tell that story was being conveyed, as his eyes slowly began to shine with understanding.

"Who are you?" he said, whispered words between arcs of the blade. "_What_ are you? I have never seen a human who fights as you do."

"A good question. What _am_ I, truly?" she asked of herself. "I suppose you could call me…a _shadow._ Yes, that sounds right. A shadow of an era long since forgotten, clinging to a world that's constantly evolving…and yet, somehow, always seems to stay the same. Your clan can understand that more than anyone, I think."

"Perhaps," admitted Yama. "But we are making strides to ensure those 'shadows' do not fade. My clan has renewed its purpose. If you _truly_ know as much of Ishimura as you claim…"

He let his sentence hang, instead expressing himself through an artful thrust. Chiyome parried it aside, though just barely.

Still, she let out a light chuckle. "You doubt me? Understandable," she responded. "Perhaps you require further proof? Would you like to know, for example…how Sora-san is faring at this very moment?"

Yama let out a violent growl, his eyes flashing white. Which was exactly what Chiyome had been waiting for.

It was a quirk of gargoyle biology that few humans understood, but at the precise moment their eyes glowed, the gargoyle in question was functionally blind. This didn't tend to matter all that much, since the simple threat was usually enough to intimidate foes into backing off.

But it provided enough of an opening for Chiyome to open a pouch at her hip and toss the powder inside into Yama's face, scalding him from contact. The _tengu_ warrior roared and backed away, his eyes forced shut by the highly irritating dust.

The _kunoichi,_ meanwhile, wasted no time capitalizing on the opportunity. She drew her _wakizashi,_ or short sword, and stabbed it straight through Yama's gut.

Blood burst from his mouth in spurts, the katana tumbling from his grip as Chiyome twisted her blade throughout the wound.

"That was…" he said hoarsely, as blood continued to stream from his lips. "A dishonorable tactic…"

"You make the mistake, _tengu_…of believing I give a damn about _bushido,_" she spoke cruelly. "But it was my husband who was the samurai. _Ninjutsu_ is the code by which _I_ fight."

"_Bushido_ is…more than just a code. It is…a way of life. Almost…a living thing…on its own…" he continued on, despite the heavy effort each syllable required. "And…as time marches on…like a turning wheel…"

With a sudden burst of strength, he scooped up his katana from where it'd fallen and, in a single swift motion, delivered a horizontal slash.

"It tends…to find…" he finished. "Its own path…"

Taken by surprise, Chiyome tried to raise her own sword in defense. But she'd been concentrating on driving the _wakizashi_ further into his abdomen, and her defense was belated and sloppy.

Adrenaline, meanwhile, provided Yama with enough strength to easily knock her katana aside. And at this close range, there was nothing else to prevent his blade from meeting its mark.

Blood flowed freely as a great gash appeared across Chiyome's chest, the sharpness of the katana easily piercing the reinforced microfibers of her jumpsuit.

"You know…it's funny," she said, as she too began to feel blood gurgle up from her throat, and dribble down the corners of her mouth. It impeded her speech far less than his, however – as if she was quite used to this level of pain. "This suit is capable of stopping a bullet. I know…I've checked. But against my very _own_ weapon of choice…"

"There is…nothing noble…in what I've just done…" he told her, his body now swaying from the blood loss. The only thing saving him from completely passing out was that the _wakizashi_ was still there, plugging up the wound. "But…I will not allow you…to threaten…any I call 'friend'…"

"It's amusing that you think you have a choice," she replied curtly. All of the lightheartedness in her earlier tone had vanished entirely. "Fortunately, I still have one tactic left to employ. The _only_ thing that matters right now is completing my task. What happens to me is of no consequence."

And with that, she reached up behind her head, and began to unpin her intricate hairstyle. Her long, midnight-black tresses fell down across her shoulders, while her fingers extracted a small, blinking device.

Unlike the rest of her arsenal, which seemed to belong squarely in the feudal era, this was clearly an incredibly advanced piece of hardware.

"Fantômas!" she called out suddenly. "Panel 3-E, now!"

The meaning of her strange command soon became clear, as the piece of flooring beneath the unconscious Arthur and Fleur swiveled at once. Like with Fantômas and Adam earlier, it revolved on an unseen axis, depositing them into the chamber below.

"There. Now the only individuals who _truly_ matter are safely out of harm's way," she said. "Everyone left in this room is expendable. Including myself."

She pressed a series of buttons on the side of the device in sequence. Soon after, it began letting out a series of high-pitched beeps.

"No point in trying to stop it, incidentally," she added, her footing beginning to waver from her own loss of blood. It didn't help that she still had the Doctor's formula running through her veins. "Despite its size, it has enough firepower to blow us to the heavens ten times over. It cannot be shut off or disarmed. And if you try to tamper with it…it'll simply go off immediately."

"Why…would you…do this…?" Yama coughed out, now driven to his knees by the sheer pain. "You could…still…save yourself…"

"You have to ask? You, who are so singularly obsessed with _bushido?_" she rejoined. "After all, you and I have both been wounded with the very weapons traditionally used for the act."

Chiyome, too, fell to the ground.

"I am, in essence, committing _seppuku_…" she whispered, as the light faded from her eyes. "And in doing so, my dear _tengu_…I have already…won…"

She let the device tumble from her fingers as she finally lost consciousness. A small display on the front was counting down.

From two minutes.

[-]

Yama very much wanted to pass out as well, but resisted the impulse with every fiber of his being.

Instead, the _wakizashi_ still protruding from his bleeding stomach, he stumbled about the chamber to each of his teammates in turn.

He didn't have enough time to do this politely. So, in the absence of any better ideas…

Yama resorted to kicking each of them really hard.

Unfortunately, this didn't prove enough to rouse Hunter or Dingo, despite his best efforts. But Fang, whose mutation had significantly altered his metabolism, jolted right up.

"Who? What? How? God, my achin' head…" he mumbled, as he slowly came back to himself. "Yamster, you got any idea what's…_holyshitgargoylepenis!_"

The still-naked Yama rolled his eyes. Of course _that_ was the first thing he commented on, and not the bloodstained sword jutting out of his abdomen.

"We don't…have…time for this…" he said irritably, using his katana to gesture toward the device on the ground. "Bomb…going off…less than a minute…"

"A _bomb?!_" Fang repeated in a panic, craning his neck over to get a better look. "I mean, least it looks like you took out the bomb_shell_…man I crack myself up…_ahem,_ yeah, okay. Not really the right time for that, I get it, but…wait, did you just say _one minute?!_"

"And if…we can't somehow…stop it…before the countdown…reaches zero…" answered Yama, choosing to ignore the cougar-mutate's disjointed ramblings. "Then every…last one of us…is going…to die…"

"Oh man, oh man…I'm too young for this! I never even had a hot threesome with chicks dressed like Wonder Woman and Black Canary!" Fang wailed. Surprisingly, however, he followed this up by slapping _himself_ – which actually seemed to calm him down, somewhat. "Okay…thinking caps on. Maybe I can…I dunno, shock it?"

He held up one of his furred palms, letting electricity flow between the fingers.

But Yama shook his head, wincing in pain even at that small motion.

"That…would surely count…as tampering…" he breathed out. "Which she said…would set it off…immediately…"

"It's not like we got a ton of spare time, pal!" yelled the mutate exasperatedly. "Don't see _you_ coming up with any better ideas!"

"If only…Matrix…were still conscious…" said Yama. He glanced one last time at their robotic squadmate, but the silvery puddle was as unmoving as ever. "He could…absorb it…like he did…the carrier virus…"

Fang spread both arms and wings in the widest, most ostentatious shrug possible.

"Well…I mean, why _not?_ Just 'cuz he's still in Electric Sheepland…!" he exclaimed, totally spitballing. "We could, like…stick him on top of the thing…? Okay I know that sounds stupid, but…_gah,_ can't possibly make things worse!"

Yama was about to offer a biting retort – but swallowed it, as he thought things through a little more. "That…may not be…the worst idea…" he admitted. "Help me…move him…"

Together, with some difficulty, the gargoyle and the mutate dragged Matrix's semi-liquid form across the ground. Meanwhile, the timer on the bomb continued to tick down.

Sixteen seconds now. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen…

At last, when it read a mere eight seconds remaining, the two winged warriors managed to lay Matrix across the explosive device, like some shiny, gooey blanket.

They couldn't see the countdown anymore, but it continued unabated in their heads. Seven seconds. Six. Five. Four…

"**TECHNOLOGY INCORPORATED INTO MATRIX DATABASE SYSTEMS.**"

Both Yama and Fang looked upon each other with identical, dumbfounded expressions.

Nevertheless, the nanobot construct wasted no time springing into action. It enveloped the bomb, forming layer upon layer of its own mass around it, as if packaging it with a metric ton of bubble wrap. Soon enough Matrix had formed a flawless, meter-long cube.

Then, gradually…the cube began to shrink. Until all that was left was Matrix's usual, featureless humanoid form – though at only about half the height it typically stood.

"**THE MECHANICAL PROCESSES OF THIS INCENDIARY DEVICE HAVE BEEN SUSPENDED,**" it said, in a slightly higher-pitched version of its normal voice. "**FORTUNATELY, OUR ASSIMILATORY PROTOCOLS ARE AUTONOMOUS, AND WERE ABLE TO INITIATE A COMPLETE REBOOT OF OUR SYSTEMS.**"

"Wait, wait…hold the phone," Fang cut in. "You're saying, this _whole_ time…all we had to do was stick something up your ass, and _that'd_ wake you up?"

"**WE DO NOT POSSESS THE ANATOMICAL FEATURE YOU TERM AN 'ASS,'**" responded Matrix. "**BUT OTHERWISE…AFFIRMATIVE.**"

Fang practically fell over himself, grumbling a lengthy, curse-laden tirade under his breath. Meanwhile, with his adrenaline rapidly dwindling, Yama actually _did_ fall to the ground, clutching at his stomach.

The mutate immediately turned to Yama, eyes ballooning in size, as if he'd just noticed what condition his teammate was in.

"Yo Yamster, not for nothing, but…" he whispered delicately. "You, uh…_do_ know you've got a sword sticking outta your gut, right?"

[-]

At the same time, directly underneath the Redemption Squad's feet, two figures were groggily shaking themselves awake.

While Fantômas had designed his labyrinth in such a way that travel between any two rooms was possible, given the right level of access, the relative comfort of the "traveler" hadn't been part of the equation. As such, when the floor revolved in order to deposit them in the "forest room" below, King Arthur and Queen Blanchefleur had fallen through about six feet of open air, landed in the branches of some false trees, and tumbled down to the ground.

Needless to say, the experience had managed to overcome the effects of Chiyome's sleeping agent quite thoroughly.

"_Merde_…_Merde_…_Nique ma mère_…" moaned Fleur, clutching at her skull as she stumbled to her feet. "Oh, my head…"

Arthur, despite his own disorientation, made an effort to help her up.

"You should avoid moving too suddenly, Lady Fleur. Your wound looks serious," he said, gesturing to the point where their adversary had stabbed her in the side with a _kunai._

Fleur let out a sharp snort of a laugh. "As if yours _doesn't,_ Your Majesty," she replied, raising her brow at the slash-wound on his leg. It was making it very difficult for the Once and Future King to stand up straight. "_Mais non,_ I don't think there's a single member of our party who _isn't_ seriously injured at this point. We'll just have to push through it."

"But now we have been separated again. This development certainly…_complicates_ matters," murmured Arthur with a frown. "Based on the sealed-over hatch above, I would wager we are directly beneath our earlier battleground."

He pointed at the hole Griff had blasted in the ceiling, in order to make way for himself and the fake Merlin. The steel shutters sealing it closed, which matched those locking down the "spiral room," supported his theory.

"Only one reason I can think we'd be tucked away like this. We're the only two Duval actually gives a damn about surviving this mess," Fleur hissed bitterly. "Nice to know the bastard still cares so much."

If she'd spoken those last few words with any more sarcasm, she might've dislocated her jaw.

Arthur drew Excalibur, holding it at the ready. "It is not as if we are strangers to belaying his best-laid plans," he said. "And if he believes I would simply stand aside while his agents continue to threaten my knight…"

He was cut off by Fleur, who held out an arm to silence him.

"Hold on, Your Majesty. I think I hear something," she whispered, angling her body toward the source of the noise. "It could be Chiyome or Fantômas, back for round two. Or even yet _another_ Assassin."

It took a few moments, but soon enough Arthur picked up on what she was talking about. The sound was still dim and distant, but it sounded like a series of cracks and crashes – as if someone, or some_thing,_ was barreling through every obstacle in its way.

And it was definitely growing closer.

"Looks like this fell down with us," Fleur told the king, picking up one of Hunter's pistols from the ground. She drew and readied it with all the skill of an expert markswoman. "I've got you covered, Your Majesty."

"It is appreciated, Lady Fleur," said Arthur, as he slowly advanced toward the source of the noise, sword-first.

The sheer number and density of the fake trees made it difficult to maneuver, but the pair did their best, sweat dripping down their bruised and bloodied faces. Meanwhile, the sound grew louder by the second.

Until, finally, when they were a mere ten feet from the far wall – painted to provide the illusion that the trees extended out many more miles – it burst open, in a cloud of dust and splinters.

Revealing the form of an enormous black bear, reared up on its hind legs as it tore the barrier to pieces.

Most people would've been panicked by such a sight, but a wave of relief washed down Arthur's body as he looked upon the creature. Particularly as it began to shrink down, its features molding and shifting, until an elderly, bearded man stood in its place.

"Wart," stated Merlin, more than a tad harshly. "What the Devil are you playing at, pointing that thing at me?"

Arthur moved to lower Excalibur, but caution stayed his hand.

"The shapeshifting would be difficult, but not necessarily impossible, to falsify," he responded coolly. "How can I be _certain_ that you are the true Merlin?"

The wizard let out a lengthy, weary sigh. "I suppose I can't blame you for being suspicious. But what exactly would it _take,_ Wart?" he said. "Should I tell the story about the squirrel? That'd probably…"

At that moment, Arthur did something Fleur had never seen before. His face went beet-red, and he hastily waved his arms to cut the old man short.

"Very well, very well. I _believe_ you," he sputtered, still flushing brilliantly as he slid Excalibur back into its scabbard.

"The…_err,_ 'squirrel story'?" Fleur couldn't help but ask.

"You know, it's funny, when that cartoon managed to get so many _other_ things wrong," Merlin continued on, smiling wistfully. "But I remember how Wart reacted when Lunette showed him that _particular_ scene. He was…"

"Let us…return to more _important_ topics," interjected Arthur, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. It was clear he would've presently preferred to be _anywhere_ but here. "Merlin, how much do you know about what has transpired?"

The mage's fingers tensed around his cane. "Almost everything, I think," he answered, his tone instantly serious. "While I was contained, Fantômas had a live feed of events streaming into my cell. To taunt me, I think. I saw it all. Including the bomb the female assassin just tried to detonate."

"Wait…_bomb?!_" Fleur exclaimed, though Merlin waved off her concerns.

"Don't worry, your allies made sure it failed. But the next attempt might not," he said. "So I suggest we get moving, and compare notes on the way."

He walked a few paces, stopped, then turned back to the pair and waved impatiently.

"Come on now, Wart!" he called out. "Looking like hell is no excuse for slacking off!"

[-]

From the control room at the center of his vast, labyrinthine lair, Fantômas watched all these events unfold, his expression perfectly blank.

Behind him, Adam Prometheus slumbered in total silence. Without breaths or a pulse, he was indistinguishable from an enormous corpse.

Unfortunately, there wasn't anything the masked assassin could do for him, short of allowing the tranquilizer to run its course. Chiyome's technique for circumventing the formula was unlikely to work, given the substantially higher dosage he'd received.

Plus…a method that depended on kickstarting the heart was rather pointless for a creature whose heart didn't beat.

Fantômas, while physically uninjured beyond the two punches he'd sustained, was equally as impotent. He could no longer rely on subterfuge, his primary weapon; any attempt to replace another of Arthur's allies would surely be noticed immediately.

He'd considered doing so during the period where all parties concerned were briefly unconscious, but ultimately decided against it. The risk was too great. Unlike Chiyome, the Phantom Thief _wasn't_ interested in dying tonight.

Besides, he'd surmised – accurately – that the _kunoichi_ would have a back-up plan for ensuring the kill. Fantômas didn't intend to interfere. And indeed, were it not for the timely awakening of the Japanese gargoyle…

Their target would lie in rubble at this very moment.

The last several minutes, however, had thrown even the criminal genius for a loop. The two most dangerous pieces on the board – Merlin and the Matrix – were both, suddenly, in play once more.

Silently, Fantômas cursed his initial restraint. He still had one card left to play, but had hesitated to reveal it. After all, his master's instructions had been _very_ explicit. King Arthur, Merlin, and Queen Blanchefleur were _not_ to become collateral damage.

He had little choice now, however. He would just have to set things in motion, and trust in his own skills to spirit that trio to safety. The timing would be tricky…but he wasn't called "The Master of Everything and Everyone" for nothing.

Fantômas' gloved hand, still disguised with the aged fingers of Merlin, hovered over the button that would send his entire lair cascading into total self-destruct.

But before he could press it, a phone began to ring, filling the control room with the booming sounds of French opera.

There was only one person who could possibly be calling him now. And so the elusive assassin pressed at his earpiece and said, "_Trente-cinq._"

Suitably chastised, he was prepared to explain all the myriad failures of the past twenty-four hours – his own included. He hadn't been so thoroughly routed since his clash with Arsène's accursed grandson.

But he didn't get the chance to offer a word in edgewise, for the man on the other end was already delivering his next instructions, in copious detail.

His tones were such that they offered no room for Fantômas to provide any input. The only words out of his lipless mouth could possibly be, "_Oui, mon maître. Je comprends._"

[-]

**Alamut, Iran**

**September 29, 2000**

Hassan-i Sabbah was a creature of habit.

His students knew and appreciated this. Every night, at precisely nine in the evening, one of them would bring him a glass of _Aragh Sagi:_ a Persian spirit made from fermented raisins which, like all alcoholic beverages, was technically illegal in Iran.

But then, so was murder.

With lessons concluded for the day, he could most likely be found in his hydroponic "greenhouse," tending to his beloved plants. Or else curled up with a good book in the underground fortress' substantial library.

The student bringing him his drink that evening, however – a teenaged Serbian girl, whom Hassan had arranged to be rescued and recruited during the Bosnian War – was unable to find him in either location. Nor was he anywhere near the kitchens or training rooms.

Hesitantly, seeing no other choice, she knocked at the door to his private chambers. To her surprise, it swung open easily at her touch.

But that was nothing compared to her shock at the sight that greeted her.

Her master's bedroom was incredibly sparse, with room for little more than a small bed, washroom, and writing desk. He was akin to a king to all those he'd taught over the centuries…and yet, he lived like the humble scholar he'd always been.

It was part of what earned him their undying loyalty.

Tonight, however, the chamber was even barer than usual. It displayed all the signs of having been packed away rather abruptly, with the only trace left behind a single piece of paper, laid upon the desk with care.

The student walked over to examine it. The page bore but a single phrase in Farsi. She thought it over in her head for a moment, parsing out the proper translation.

Then, the glass tumbled from her hand, shattering upon the floor. For this is what the paper said:

_I believe it was Charles-Guillaume Étienne who first opined…if you want something done right, do it yourself._

[-]

**Hotel Marseillaise, Casablanca**

**September 29, 2000**

"Room service for a…Madame Serena?" read out the bellboy, knocking again upon the door. "Crawfish étouffée and gumbo z'herbes?"

For two full minutes now, there'd been no reply. The bellboy was beginning to get antsy. The food was very hot and difficult to carry, and if the guest complained about it arriving cold, there was a good chance of the blame falling squarely on _his_ head.

Tepidly, he took out his master key set and inserted it into the lock, pushing the door open as quietly as possible. He placed the tray onto the nearest counter, so that the guest was sure to see it if and when she returned.

Either way, it wasn't his problem. He quickly closed the door and headed off for his next errand, all thoughts to his last one forgotten.

If he'd taken a closer look into the room, he would've noticed the same thing the young Assassin-in-training did at Alamut. The same signs of the occupant having hurriedly packed up everything they could, and departing in a flurry.

All that was left on the bed was a generous tip for the housekeeper…

And a single, discarded tarot card, abandoned in haste the moment it was drawn.

**The Hermit**


	6. Episode VI: The Hermit

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Episode VI: The Hermit**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Alamut Castle, Persia**

**November 18, 1256**

"A toast, Great Khan," spoke the castle's master. "To a long and beautiful friendship."

Beneath the two heavy slashes that scarred his face, Temüjin smiled. "You know very well that I am no more a Khan these days…" he said. "Than you are an Imam."

Nevertheless, he drew his cup level with that of his compatriot, and brought the rims together. Both drank, letting the cool liquid within wash down their throats.

Both shuddered, as the waters of the Holy Grail worked their magic, preserving their bodies from the ravages of time.

Each man sat there for the next several moments, drinking in silence. Eventually, however, Temüjin placed his cup upon the table with both hands, taking great care of the fine pottery. He _was_ a guest in this castle, after all.

Then, he declared, "It will happen tomorrow. I know my grandsons well, and they will not delay. Is everything prepared?"

Hassan-i Sabbah inclined his head. "Ruknuddin is young and hot-headed – but he knows his forces stand no chance against the Mongol horde," he answered calmly. "I'm sure there will be fighting…but ultimately, he'll have no choice to surrender the fortress. And _all_ that comes with it."

The Mongolian warlord's lip curled.

"Yes, I suppose it will be necessary that Hülegü strike during the day," he said with a sigh. "Such a waste, and yet…"

Hassan waved off his concern. "There was no way to direct him otherwise, without raising suspicion," he interjected. "For this all to go smoothly, neither of our hands may be seen directing the course of events. We _are_ both supposed to be dead, after all."

"And unfortunately, the necessities of subterfuge sometimes require…_sacrifices,_" said Temüjin, folding his hands across each other. He looked around at the magnificent treasures surrounding them – trophies of a thousand assassinations, strung up along the walls like party decorations. "It will be such a shame to see this castle burn to the ground."

"They are only things," Hassan remarked dismissively. His tone was awfully blasé for someone whose entire life's work was twenty-four hours away from going up in smoke. "Everything of importance – from books to people – has already been moved to the _true_ Alamut."

He tapped gently at the ground with his foot. Directly beneath them, Temüjin knew, was a grand network of underground chambers and tunnels. At first used to transmit intelligence and personnel without their enemies being the wiser, the secret fortress would soon replace its aboveground counterpart completely.

The former Genghis Khan, however, frowned after pondering upon this for a moment.

"But surely you will be unable to save them all," he said. "Or even _most._ If my grandsons' army finds the castle deserted, it will surely raise their suspicions. They might even dig further, and discover what lies beneath."

"As you say, my friend…_sacrifices,_" replied Hassan solemnly. "Alas, I can only afford to save my few, my cherished…my _Hashashin._ But they understand what must be done – and the price their brothers and sisters must pay in their stead. Ah…case in point."

For their meeting, otherwise private and uninterrupted, had just been joined by a winged figure on the castle's parapets. She bowed to both men as she touched down, draping her wings across her shoulders as a sign of respect.

"I apologize for disturbing you and your guest, Great One," stated the gargoyle. "But I thought you'd want to know that the Mongols have been spotted. At this rate, they will likely arrive two or three hours past daybreak."

"_Kâri nakardam,_ child. I appreciate your keen observations," Hassan reassured her, before turning back to his fellow Illuminatus. "Temüjin, I'd like to introduce you to one of my most valued _Hashashin:_ the Second of Clan Alamut."

For what castle in the thirteenth century would be complete…without its very own gargoyle clan? And what sort of master assassin would ignore the potential of such promising recruits?

Since capturing the fortress in 1090, the clan that roosted at Alamut – a name that itself meant "eagle's nest" – had formed the great backbone of Hassan's forces.

"It is an honor," said Temüjin, bowing in return. "I have always held a certain admiration for the gargoyle race. A great many marched across the battlefield under my very banner."

"I have heard the tales, by way of the Great One. He is a wonderful teacher," spoke the Second, sincerely. "But please…in this land, my kind are known as _Simurgh._"

Like all Persian gargoyles, she was distinctly avian in appearance, with a body of feathers that ran across a wide spectrum of colors, ranging from deep purple around the neck to greenish-blue near her feet. Her tail split into three parts, similarly rainbow-hued, while her mouth was snout-like, almost canine. It ended in a hooked beak, like a parrot's.

Hassan walked over, looking his student squarely in the eye.

"Now…you understand what needs to be done, my dear Simurgh?" he asked, gently but firmly.

The Second nodded once. "I will ensure my fellow _Hashashin,_ human and Simurgh alike, are safely ensconced in the rookery before the sun rises," she responded. "Thankfully, the clan has long used those tunnels to protect our young, so the eggs should be safe. Those of us who remain will raise them underground…a new generation of Assassins."

She let out a low sigh, before adding, "This'd be so much easier if _she_ was still with us, though. She always had a better head in a crisis than I do."

"Dunyazade made her choice when Jerusalem fell. We have no other recourse but to respect it," said Hassan curtly. "In any event…I believe we have considered every facet, to the best of our ability. We are ready."

Temüjin rose from his seat, and despite his relatively short stature, cut an impressive figure as he strode across the dining room.

He offered one last bow, which both Hassan and the Second accepted and returned.

"I wish you best fortune, my friend," he told the Old Man of the Mountain. "As I believe you are fond of saying, ours is a world in which nothing is true…"

"And everything is permitted," finished Hassan-i Sabbah, his voice low and grave.

[-]

**?, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

"So, mate…what's the verdict?" asked a still-groggy Dingo, as he shook the toxin-induced sleep out of his eyes.

Matrix, who was currently in the form of a giant drill, did not answer immediately. The AI was busy attempting to break through the nearest steel barrier, kicking up countless sparks and an ungodly amount of noise as it spun away.

Eventually, however, it shifted back to its humanoid form – now at full height, having had time to produce more nanites – and said, "**THE HARDNESS OF THIS ALLOY IS INORDINATELY HIGH, BUT REMAINS INSUFFICIENT TO IMPEDE OUR PROGRESS.**"

"Then _why,_ in the love of all that is holy and moly, are we still _stuck_ in this crazy place?" Fang demanded.

Matrix was silent for a few seconds. Then, in what sounded like a slightly different tone, it added, "**ANSWER TO QUERY IS…UNCERTAIN. ALLOY POSSESSES ATTRIBUTES THAT CANNOT BE MEASURED USING CURRENT PARAMETERS.**"

"Must be the saercery that Fleur woman mentioned," spoke a woozy but stern Hunter, who – immediately upon being shaken awake by Fang – had thrown up her last few meals onto the floor.

The rest of her squad had either been too polite, or too scared, to comment on it.

"Well that's peachy! We'll just ask our resident expert in Houdini crap and…oh yeah! We sorta kinda _lost_ all of those!" Fang complained, his furry hands thrown up in the air.

"Magic…has never been…a discipline of study…for my clan…" coughed out Yama. "We are…aware of its power…but nonetheless…"

"Hey, you. Maybe quit piping in if you sound like you're gonna keel over with every frickin' word," Fang cut him off. "We can handle things from here. _You_ focus on…uh, y'know. Not dying."

While harsh, even Yama had to admit that the cougar-mutate had a point. He was leaned up against the wall, clutching at his abdomen, breaths coming out rough and ragged as blood continued to leak from the wound.

For the _wazikashi_ was still there, a grim reminder of how much the last fight had cost them. With none of them possessing medical knowledge beyond rudimentary first-aid, the other members of the Redemption Squad couldn't risk pulling out the blade.

The most they'd been able to offer was a torn-off strip of Fang's uniform to stem the bleeding a bit, and another to preserve his dignity.

"Sheila knew exactly what she was doin', no doubt," said Dingo sourly. "Got to ya right _after_ un-stonin'. An' without that fancy knife pluggin' up the wound…"

"I shall…almost certainly…bleed to death…" finished Yama, between ugly coughs. Crimson leaked anew from the corners of his mouth.

"**YOU ARE NOT CURRENTLY AT SIGNIFICANT DISTANCE FROM SUCH A STATE,**" Matrix told the gargoyle, in its usual toneless manner. "**BASED ON OUR CURRENT READINGS OF YOUR VITAL SIGNS, IT IS UNLIKELY THAT YOU WILL SURVIVE UNTIL THE NEXT SUNSET IN THIS CONDITION.**"

"Gee, thanks for the update! No way we could've figured _that_ out on our own, T-1000!" yelled Fang in exasperation. "_Look_ at the guy! None of us exactly came away from Ninja Chick smelling like roses, but…"

"Quiet, _quiet!_ This innae helping anything!" Hunter stepped in, trying to defuse the tension. "Look…if the only way we're getting outtae this death trap is with magic, then so be it. Maerlin's in here somewhere."

"S'truth. So's King Arthur an' that 'Fleur' sheila," said Dingo. "But that don't exactly help us if we can't get outta this bloomin' room."

"Feel like we're supporting characters in those bozos' stories," groused Fang, shaking his head impatiently. "Which, honestly…I wouldn't mind! If any of the leads had the good manners to, y'know…_show up!_"

His frustrated words flew across the sealed chamber, bouncing off the steel barriers that imprisoned them within. For a few moments, those echoes were the only sound reverberating through the silence.

Until another, very distinct noise arose to drown them out.

It was a sound that, being on a team with Yama, the entire Squad had heard many times before. A series of rising, low-pitched cracking noises, spreading out like the shattered shell of an egg.

Sir Griff of the London Clan let out a colossal roar as, at last, he burst free from stone sleep.

"Oh, blimey…I've _never_ gonna stop hating jetlag," he muttered, clutching at his head. He paused, taking in the scene before him, his eyes going wide as they passed over his fellow gargoyle. "Bloody hell! Yama, mate, what happened to you? And where's Arthur and Fleur?"

"Yeh…might wannae sit down faer this," said Hunter. "Yeh missed a few things while yeh were out, gargoyle."

[-]

"Containment magic. Mortal, but potent. Whoever enchanted this steel knew what they were doing, that's for damn sure," Merlin mused aloud, as he examined one of the shutters from the other side.

"Can you dispel it?" asked Fleur, wincing as she felt a renewed pang from her side.

Healing magic was far from the archwizard's specialty, but he'd at least been able to close up the stab wound from Chiyome's _kunai,_ albeit at the cost of some of her own stamina. Arthur had waived off similar aid, as the enchantment on Excalibur's scabbard would heal his own injury over time. Indeed, the slash across his leg was already about halfway closed.

Merlin crossed his arms, looking upon the steel appraisingly.

Then, his lips barely moving, he said, "Give me a few minutes."

While he got to work, Arthur sidled up next to the former queen. He wore a small but sharp grin.

"Even after all these years, I never get tired of seeing him in his element," he told her quietly. "It is akin to witnessing a master artisan laboring upon a grand sculpture or portrait."

And indeed, Merlin's "process" was a sight to behold. Careful measurements taken with tensed fingers, which inscribed glowing runes across the wall and the empty air, vanishing seconds after they appeared. Murmured words in Latin, rhyming English, and a few languages Fleur couldn't even _begin_ to identify, that flowed into each other like a single, uninterrupted song.

Though the illusion was broken, somewhat, when the elderly mage swore loudly and began banging his staff against the barrier as hard as possible.

"Yes, I can…certainly see the elegance," she whispered back, with an awkward smile.

But Arthur's own grin never abated. "Wait for it," he said.

The staff struck steel once, twice, three times…the sound of wood on steel resounding so loudly, it drove everything else from Fleur's mind.

Unconsciously, she continued to count. Four strikes. Five. Six…

On the seventh, a very different sound filled her ears.

For this time, the staff had gone straight through the steel shutter, as if it was made of cardboard.

"Strengthening magic is a multiplier, not a set value. The weaker the material, the less effective it'll be," explained Merlin, panting from the exertion. "Found a point where the metal was a lot weaker than the rest, and targeted that. I'm guessing your friends on the other side did some damage on their own."

"I see…" Fleur replied, walking over to examine the hole the wizard had just managed to punch through. "But your own material matters too. Even with _enchanted_ wood…"

"No idea who cast this spell, but they're obviously Chinese in origin. It's written all over their magic," said Merlin, placing his staff through the hole again. "Which means it follows the _Wu Xing._ Normally wood's weak to metal in Chinese sorcery, so I imbued mine with a little bit of fire and earth, which 'beat' it in the cycle. Elementary trick, once you figure it out."

Fleur nodded. "Makes sense," she muttered. "Was pretty sure this was Mustapha's handiwork. Chinese mother, Arabic father. His magic mixes both."

"You mentioned that name earlier," Arthur noted coolly. "I gather he is the Illuminati's expert in the magic arts?"

"They have a fair few of those. But Mustapha Badroulbadour is the highest-ranked by far. One of the Fours," she answered. "Principally, he's in charge of Third Race affairs. Keeps tabs on Children of Oberon all over the globe. Expert in binding and capturing them, too. But he'll lend a hand whenever another member's plan needs a bit of mystic might – as in this case."

"And that member, in this case, is the 'Hassan' you spoke of?" asked the king. "Clearly, Sir Percival has been keeping…_interesting_ company, as of late."

"More than you know," Fleur sighed bitterly. "They're the cases I find the most tragic. Not the monsters like 'Watson Doyle' or Diego de Landa, who were _always_ this way. Bloodthirsty animals, set loose on a world's worth of prey. But Hassan, or 'Mustapha'? They're like my ex-husband. You could've called them heroes, once. Or at least better than those they fought."

"No such thing, milady. I'd think you'd have learned that by now," said Merlin, without turning away from his work. He was revolving his staff through the hole, slowly widening it, like a sort of mystic drill. "The second we think we're bigger than what we are in the moment – a king, a knight, a mage – is the second we're lost. You can't fall into the trap of believing your own legend. That's what got Percival."

The corner of Fleur's lip twitched. "Didn't you call him 'a singular spectacle' in your Scrolls?" she asked, gesturing a thumb toward Arthur.

Surprisingly, Merlin turned around, matching her expression.

"Well, yes. But those were my _private_ diaries," he responded, emphasizing the word. "_He_ certainly wasn't supposed to see them. Can't have my pupil getting a swelled head, can we? His hair's already ridiculous enough."

And with that, he pulled back on the staff, which was glowing with runes denoting the elements of fire and earth. The entire wall of steel came with it, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Revealing the figure who, clearly, had just been examining the small hole from the other side.

"Your Majesty…" breathed Sir Griff, his eyes shining with happiness.

[-]

Now that Matrix and Merlin were both awake and working alongside one another, the traps and obstacles of Fantômas' labyrinth stood little match.

He'd provided a bit of healing to the Redemption Squad before heading off – enough for Hunter, Dingo, and Fang to walk without issue, and for Yama to at least be pulled back from death's door. The Japanese gargoyle was currently resting in a floating bubble of Matrix's nanites, his foe's _wazikashi_ held tight between his claws, caked with his own drying blood.

He'd refused to part with it, and none of the Squad were willing to argue the point.

In a second bubble lay the unconscious Chiyome Mochizuki, bound and gagged with nanotech shackles for good measure. Somehow, she was surviving the massive gash Yama had cut across her breast with no apparent ill effects.

They'd debated leaving her behind, but ultimately Hunter put her foot down.

"We're already coming back empty-handed fraem the 'Capture Fantômas' op," she said. "If we have a high-ranking Illuminatus as a prisoner, at least the Director cannae complain _too_ much."

"Oh, so he's called 'the Director,' is he?" Dingo piped up. "S'not much, but still the closest ya've come to a name so far."

Hunter let out a low growl. "Keep moving, mohawk," she snapped.

Despite the mazelike lair being in complete lockdown, the team were able to push forward without too much issue. Merlin could easily detect the areas reinforced with magic and direct them along other paths, where Excalibur was usually sufficient to cut through the physical barriers.

And where the spellworked steel was unavoidable, it was a simple matter of repeating the process they'd used to escape: Matrix breaking down the materials as much as possible, and Merlin's elemental magic taking care of the rest.

The only real threat left was the disorienting nature of the labyrinth, but even that was greatly mitigated by their most powerful members.

Matrix, of course, wasn't fooled by optical illusions or vertigo-inducing tricks. Its purely electronic senses could navigate this surrealistic nightmare as easily as a corner store. And as for Merlin…

"You call _this_ chaos, you daft doppelgänger?" he called out, punctuating his words with a barking laugh. "I've dealt with worse in a potionmaker's washroom!"

To prove the point, he snapped his fingers as the group passed through a room resembling a frozen tundra. The machines maintaining the artificial cold immediately malfunctioned, as the wizard simply sidestepped all the false snow.

After about twenty minutes of this, however, Griff began to feel a bit uneasy at just how _much_ progress they were making. He fell back, joining in lockstep with his liege.

"Your Majesty, not that I want to be a jinx, but…" he said, very quietly. "This almost seems like it's going _too_ easy. And that's never a good sign in our line of work."

"Honestly, I have been having the same thoughts," admitted Arthur. "But what else are we to do? We must simply be certain not to lower our guards. We have thwarted three of their best assassins now…and nothing I know of the Illuminati indicates they will accept that outcome lying down."

"Point taken," Griff murmured back, before his expression shifted. He suddenly looked rather self-conscious. "By the way…the Hunter's team told me what happened while I was stuck in stone. And…err, well…"

"If you intend to offer me gratitude, Sir Griff, then think nothing of it," interjected the king. "I will not allow harm to befall _any_ of my knights, so long as I draw breath. Besides, the others deserve far more credit than I."

"And I thanked them already. Yama especially. Stubborn fool damn near got himself killed for my sake," replied Griff with a grimace. "But you and Fleur deserve to hear it, too. I wouldn't be alive tonight if it wasn't for all of you. And that's…"

Arthur looked at him curiously, while his gargoyle knight shook his head and let out a deep breath.

"I'm not used to it. Being the one who gets saved. Usually I'm the swashbuckling rogue _doing_ the saving," he continued, after a moment. "So, I just want to say…thank you. For being a king worth dying for. And…for being too hardheaded to let me."

The Once and Future King offered him a broad, warm smile.

"This oath, I do honorably accept," he said. "But if you are in the mood to be dispensing words of appreciation, Sir Griff…then I think there is one more person worthy of hearing them."

Griff followed Arthur's line of sight, and soon realized where his words had been directed. The gargoyle let out a low groan.

"Alright…if you insist, Your Majesty," he grumbled, before walking up to Merlin.

The mage was busy breaking through an apparently ordinary wall, which Matrix had already weakened in drill-form, so he didn't respond to Griff's approach immediately.

Already feeling rather wrong-footed, the gargoyle slouched back a bit and began, "Listen, I…"

But Merlin cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You don't need to say anything, Sir Griff," he told him, without turning around.

Griff raised an eyebrow ridge, taken aback.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" he asked, trying and only half-succeeding at keeping his voice level.

"You don't need to say anything…" the mage repeated, and this time he did turn to face the gargoyle knight, his expression the most serious Griff had ever seen it. "Because I already heard everything you said to my double. Bastard had footage streaming into my cell the whole time I was stuck there. And much as it pains me to admit, his performance…_wasn't_ terrible. That's pretty much what I would've told you, if it'd been me in that ersatz forest. With one exception."

Merlin placed a heavy hand upon Griff's shoulder, aged eyes swimming with purpose.

"He said he respected you just as much as Wart's original knights. And that's simply not true," he said. For a moment, the London gargoyle looked crestfallen…but then came his next words. "I respect you far _more_ than most. Because you can do something almost none of the Round Table were willing _or_ able to do."

"And…that is…?" whispered Griff.

The archwizard looked at him for several moments. Then, in solemn tones, he gave his answer.

"You can tell Wart when he's wrong," he spoke, and in that moment – for perhaps the very first time – Griff felt he could appreciate the sheer wellspring of wisdom from which Merlin drew his counsel. "That's something most of the men in his service couldn't have done in a million years. Even I had my share of trouble…with disastrous results. If I could've only advised him differently about Mordred…"

His voice trailed off, as his staff briefly pulsed with power. He swung it against the wall one more time, and broke clean through.

On the other side was an upward-sloping tunnel. And at the top…

"Great," Griff remarked with a sigh, looking upon the trapdoor on the ceiling, illuminated bright from the other side. "Another illusion, no doubt."

"No, Sir Griff," said Merlin. "That's just what it appears to be. That's the way out."

[-]

**Palais Garnier, Paris**

**September 29, 2000**

They emerged into a storage closet, one stuffed ceiling to floor with cleaning supplies.

"If I had to hazard a guess, one of Fantômas' identities probably serves as a janitor here," stated Fleur, as she climbed out of the tunnel, the two floating Matrix-spheres in tow.

The trapdoor closed behind her, blending seamlessly with the closet's tile floors. It'd be impossible to know it was here without actively searching for it.

"Well, dunno 'bout you guys, but I am _so_ ready to haul ass back to HQ," drawled Fang in a carrying voice. "Assuming we _can_ get back this way. Didn't exactly come through the front door the first time."

"**LOCAL TIME IS ELEVEN-SIXTEEN CENTRAL EUROPEAN SUMMER TIME,**" offered Matrix. "**WE ARE UNLIKELY TO EXPERIENCE A SIGNIFICANT NUMBER OF IMPEDANCES AT THIS HOUR, APART FROM NIGHT SECURITY.**"

"Let's get moving, then," said Hunter, motioning the group forward. "We shinnae spend a second longer in enemy territory than we haftae."

Cautiously, they exited the storage closet and began creeping through the dark corridors of the Palais Garnier, Hunter and Arthur taking point, their respective weapons at the ready.

However, it soon became clear that after skulking through deathtraps for so many hours, a completely ordinary opera house was child's play. Even the night guards Matrix had warned of were nowhere to be found.

Which…

"Something's not right," declared Griff with a frown. "This is a huge center of Parisian culture, isn't it? We should've seen _some_ kind of security by now."

"Bloke has a point," Dingo responded, drawing a gun with his one good arm. "Everybody, keep on high alert. Got a feeling we ain't outta hot water yet."

"I don't sense any nearby magic. And I used a good deal of my own getting us out of that dungeon of nonsense," Merlin told the group. "I'm afraid I may be of limited utility for the remainder of the night."

"That is alright, my teacher. I believe Lady Canmore's warriors, allied with my own, should more than suffice," said Arthur. "Besides, we need only to…"

But the king's voice fell away, as he pushed aside a heavy curtain that was blocking their path, and the party realized just what part of the opera house they were in.

They'd emerged into the main auditorium, an enormous horseshoe-shaped hall with five levels of balcony seating and countless rows in the center – totaling about two thousand velvet-red seats in all. Golden statues of cherubs and trumpeting, angelic women directed the eyes upward, to a grand painted dome that paid homage to dozens of classical composers and operas in stark, contrasting hues.

And at the center of it all was a truly massive chandelier, bedecked in bronze and crystal, and casting the entire auditorium in a warm, brilliant glow.

"Clearly, we…took a wrong taern at some point," Hunter murmured, backing away from the stage they'd found themselves at the center of. "Let's go back tae the last hallway and…"

Her words, however, were likewise cut short. Because at that moment, the light of the chandelier vanished, plunging the auditorium into darkness.

For obvious reasons, this affected Griff far less substantially than some of the others. So he was the first to realize there was someone standing _on_ the chandelier.

And that that someone was taking aim.

"Get _down!_" he shouted, but it was too late.

What fired from the assailant's blaster turned out to be a net of sorts, which wrapped around and ensnared Matrix's form. Ordinarily this would've been an absolutely terrible counter for the AI, and indeed its nanites were already "oozing" through the gaps in the net.

Until a strong current began to course through its wires, freezing the nanobots in place.

Indeed, the electromagnetic pulse was so strong that it affected the floating spheres Matrix had detached from itself as well. They halted in the air, dangling like two giant Christmas baubles, and then – just as had happened in the labyrinth's "cloud room" – gravity took care of the rest.

The seven gathered heroes were forced to throw themselves to the side to keep from being crushed by the falling balls, which rolled aimlessly across the stage.

Remembering the events of last time, Arthur rushed for the sphere holding Yama, slashing it open with Excalibur. He and Griff reached in, helping the injured gargoyle out of the nanite shell.

"Do not…worry…about me…" he said, between coughs. "Keep an eye…out for…our new foe…"

"Yo! Over there!" exclaimed Fang, almost as soon as the words came out of Yama's mouth.

The rest of the group followed the mutate's outstretched arm, with difficulty – it was still very dark – but soon realized what he was referring to. A shadowy figure stood beside the other Matrix-sphere, and by the small glint they could make out in the blackness, had drawn his own, sharply curved sword.

"_Lūcēs venite!_" shouted Merlin, raising his staff high.

A spark of white light, like a tiny star, burst forth from the spell, rising up into the air until settling several dozen feet above them. It cast a bright glow over the gathered fighters, and because of its relative position, almost resembled a stage light.

By the time it illuminated their enemy, however, he'd already managed to cut Chiyome loose, her limp body held tenderly in his calloused hands.

"Now, now. Don't be giving me that look," he said calmly. "You had something that belongs to me. You can't blame me for taking her back."

And with that, he pulled out a small vial, and injected it into her neck.

Chiyome's eyes flew open in an instant, panic and confusion overtaking every inch of her face. After all, she'd never expected to wake up again.

Before she could register any of her myriad questions, however, she realized whose arms she was being cradled within. In a voice that was halfway terrified and halfway enraptured, she whispered, "Sensei…?"

"_Shh,_ child. You have done more than enough," he told her. "Know that I am not angry – with any of you. That I must now step in is testament to our target's strength, and not _your_ weakness."

The _kunoichi_ disentangled herself from her master, though it took some effort; the lingering effects of the toxin she'd been doused with, not to mention the grievous wound across her chest, were still evident.

"Then…in that case…" she panted. "I will fight alongside you, sensei. Together, they'd stand no chance."

"I appreciate the thought, Mochizuki-san. But you're not in any condition for that, and we _both_ know it," he said, and though his voice remained polite, there was now an edge to it that made it clear this was an order. "Retreat for now. Reconvene with Fantômas and dear Adam, and await further instructions. I can handle the rest…_personally._"

The Japanese woman still looked hesitant – but ultimately, offered a low bow.

"If you thought Fantômas-san's traps, Prometheus-san's strength, or my own precision were deadly on their own…" she spoke softly, her words now directed solely at the gargoyle she'd tried and failed to kill. "Then you have yet to bear witness to the most terrifying killer of all time. The _First_ Assassin."

With that, she faded into the shadows, disappearing completely. And her rescuer stepped forward, standing tall beneath the magic light.

"This will the first murder I have committed in-person in over a century," he added, twirling his blade – a blackened, jeweled-encrusted scimitar – in a casual arc. "Let's hope I haven't grown too rusty."

[-]

He was a man with little remarkable about him. One could easily pass him on a city street or a busy café, and not think twice of his face.

Tanned, leathery skin; a neatly groomed, chalk-white beard; simple robes and a headscarf dyed a very pale tan, so that his figure would easily blend into desert sands. Against the pitch-black background, however, he practically glowed – an emblem of death, approaching with short, purposeful steps.

"Enough o' this crap. I seen _Raiders,_ y'know," said Dingo sharply. "I know how to deal with a bugger like this."

He stepped forward, ignoring their enemy's fancy swordplay entirely. Then he raised his gun, and fired.

For a moment, the man stopped in his tracks, as the sound of the gunshot reverberated through the nearly empty auditorium. Then, he resumed his stride, as if nothing had happened.

It took several minutes for all gathered – apart from Matrix, who was still frozen from the EMP – to realize he was holding the bullet between two fingers.

"That…innae impossible…" Hunter gasped, unable to believe her eyes. "That innae physically _possible_…"

"Marius had lived too little as yet to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible, and that what we must always foresee is the unforeseen," quoted the old man, clicking his tongue. "Victor Hugo, _Les Misérables._ It seemed appropriate, given our present locale."

Those were the last words he spoke before rushing forward.

All three of the previous assassins had been rather quick – surprisingly so, in Adam's case – but this foe was on a whole other level. In the blink of an eye he closed the distance between them, a pale blur that struck Dingo with the force of a cracking whip.

The Australian mercenary doubled over, suppressing a bellow of pain as he clutched at his broken arm. Fresh blood oozed from a deep, angular gash.

"Healed with sorcery, no doubt. I recognized it immediately," said the old assassin. "But magic is far from a panacea. Any wound mended by its power will be raw and weak for hours afterward. A weakness ripe for…_exploitation._"

Before any of them could react, he was darting between them again. In the space of a few seconds he slashed Hunter in the ribs, struck Fang in the head with the flat of his blade…and finally, with cold indifference, simply kicked Yama very hard in the stomach.

The entire Redemption Squad, one of the most formidable fighting forces on the face of the Earth, fell across the surface of the stage.

"This may come as a surprise to you all, but I abhor the needless shedding of blood. You will all live to see another night," he told them, striding past their bodies as if they were bags of refuse, strewn randomly about. "Your interference, however, shall _not_ be tolerated."

A blade struck against his, though the old man parried without any apparent effort. "Nor will yours, my dear. Regardless of our friendship," he added coolly.

For the opponent who'd risen to meet him was Fleur, wielding the _wazikashi_ that, until an hour ago, had been plunged to the hilt in Yama's abdomen.

"Oh, so we're 'friends,' now, Hassan?" she hissed, as their swords collided again, unleashing a spray of sparks. "Do you have any idea how many good men, women, and gargoyles you've murdered over the years?"

"Well, I suppose that depends. Do you keep track of the number of times in your life you've brushed your teeth, or visited the restroom?" he said curtly. "I take no pleasure in fulfilling my role, but my role it nonetheless remains. _Someone_ must take responsibility for those instances where the only way to preserve the world…is to remove another from it."

"_Mon cul!_ You're just like the rest of Duval's sycophants. You kill to preserve _your_ version of the world, no one else's," spat Fleur in reply, between strikes. "Don't try to twist it into something noble."

Her blade's much shorter range meant that Fleur needed to press in close and maintain a constant offensive, simply to keep from being overwhelmed. But while her face strained and sweated with effort, her foe couldn't have appeared calmer.

"You've improved since last we sparred," he declared, inclining his head approvingly. "But the martial arts were never truly your specialty, were they my dear?"

Then, without warning, he did something she couldn't possibly have anticipated: he put his sword aside, and allowed hers to continue forward, until it pierced straight through his shoulder.

But the old man gave no indication that he'd just been impaled, even as crimson pooled up, staining his pale robes.

"You were banking on the toxin Mochizuki-san coats her weapons with, I trust? Clever of your gargoyle friend to preserve one of her blades, just in case," he said. "Of course, if you'd stopped to think a bit longer, you would've realized…who it was who _taught_ dear Chiyome how to build resistance to poisons."

With that, he took a great step backward, wrenching the _wazikashi_ out of her grip. Then, in a single motion, he used his free hand to grasp onto the protruding handle, and yanked it straight out of the wound.

It was a nauseating sight, as the combined blood and gristle of both himself and Yama gleamed across the blade. But he wielded it alongside his own scimitar with ease, as if he'd trained with both swords all his life.

Disarmed and thrown off-balance, there wasn't much Fleur could do to keep from being thrown to the ground, a slash from the _wazikashi_ across her upper arm. The wound was superficial, but the damage was done; she could already feel the world around her growing hazy.

But before her consciousness could begin to drift, she saw Hassan suddenly back away, energy crackling across his body. A second later, a tawny eagle-owl swooped in and clawed at his face, briefly blinding the assassin.

And finally, a glint appeared beneath the light of the spell, as one last blade struck its target true. Hassan only barely managed to block in time, but not without cost – as Chiyome's short sword sailed away from the impact, disappearing into the stands.

King Arthur, Sir Griff, and a de-shapeshifted Merlin stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder for perhaps the very first time.

[-]

"This is the Hassan-i Sabbah you spoke of, I trust?" asked the Once and Future King, one hand helping Fleur to her feet while the other held Excalibur at the ready. "The origin of all the chaos of the past fortnight?"

"It is a genuine honor to stand at blade's length from you, Your Majesty," said Hassan. "I hope you appreciate that nothing about this is personal."

"And I hope that _you_ appreciate, sirrah…" Arthur returned. "That to me, it very much is."

The old man adjusted the grip on his scimitar, before airily murmuring, "Ah. I suppose I can't fault you for that."

"Mind…I'd probably consider it a _smidge_ personal as well," Griff pointed out, taking aim with his lightning gun once more. "Care for me to demonstrate?"

But before he could pull the trigger, Hassan subtly twisted his wrist. A small, buglike device escaped from his robes and flew through the air, attaching itself to the weapon.

Griff let out a gasp of pain as it sent a spark through the lightning gun. A moment later, it clattered to the ground, completely fried.

"When it comes to my own armaments, I'm something of a…_traditionalist,_" remarked the old man, with a twirl of his scimitar. "But you don't get to be my age without picking up a _few_ new tricks. A teacher who ceases his own learning is a poor teacher, indeed."

"Bollocks! I liked this thing. Guess I can just get another from Macbeth, but…shite, just won't be the same," said Griff with a sigh, largely ignoring his opponent's words as he looked upon the now-useless gun.

He picked himself back up quickly, however, staring daggers at the elderly assassin. "Merlin. Your Majesty. I appreciate everything you've done to defend me up till now, but it's time to stop running and hiding," he called out, his words ringing through the dark auditorium. "If this bloke's so intent on pinching my skin…well, he'll have the devil's time getting it."

Despite being disarmed, Griff began circling the old man, his talons at the ready. Adopting a bemused smile, Hassan did the same.

"This is foolhardy, Sir Griff. Your adversary is an assassin, not a knight. He fights by no code of chivalry or valor," Arthur cautioned the gargoyle. "Even if you should manage to best him…"

"Your liege speaks truth, child," Hassan cut in, punctuating the point with another twirl of his blade. "It may well be that you succeed in escaping me this night. Despite Mochizuki-san's boasts, I am no more history's greatest assassin than King Arthur is its most accomplished swordsman. Our talent lies in the _leading_ of men."

As he spoke these words, he lunged forward, striking with the suddenness of a snapping cobra. Griff hastily dodged backward, the tip of Hassan's scimitar missing his chest by less than an inch.

Yet the old man's speech didn't abate at all, his tones remaining perfectly even as he pressed his advantage with careful, calculated slashes.

"But know that _none_ have been marked as a target of the _Hashashin_…and lived to tell the tale," he continued. "Perhaps it will be tonight. Perhaps, three nights from now. Or…three _years._ I am a very old man, you know. And that means I know how to wait."

As Hassan tried to close in again, Griff snapped his tail like a whip, trying to catch him in his blind spot. But without the slightest hesitation, the assassin contorted his body beneath the appendage, like some strange game of limbo, and swiftly counterattacked with an upward slice – directly where Adam had injured his tail earlier.

"_Graaaah!_" roared Griff, as blood spurted across the immaculately polished floor. "Every…bloody…_time_…_!_"

"This is your future, gargoyle. The only thing you have left to look forward to," said Hassan. "The rest of your life will be spent looking over your shoulder. Because all it shall take is a moment. Just _one_ moment of weakness; of hesitation. And from the shadows shall come a blade, or an arrow, or a bullet. My students are persistent, you see. And so _very_ creative."

"I have had enough of this!" King Arthur stormed, raising Excalibur and charging at the elderly assassin. "Even if it should be unsporting, I will _not_ allow my knight to fight alone any longer!"

But the enchanted blade met only air, as Hassan deftly sidestepped his attack. In one, fluid motion he slipped around the king, pulling his sword-arm into an iron hold as he did. Applying pressure across Arthur's entire back, he pinned him to the ground…and then with a sickening sound, sharply twisted the arm.

Arthur bellowed in pain, as Excalibur tumbled from his grip, clattering a few inches away.

"No matter how much you endeavor to deny me, it will all be for naught. Death is an inevitability, and I am but her humble herald," declared Hassan, as he offhandedly deflected a shot from Hunter. Despite her injuries, she'd managed to rally one last, desperate strike against the assassin…which he hadn't even needed to _look_ at in order to parry.

"So fight, all of you. To your last breaths, if you wish. As I said, you might even win," he went on as, with a flick of his wrist, long tendrils escaped from his sleeve and struck Hunter – and Dingo, who'd been struggling to recover as well – like a cracking whip.

Despite their fortitude, both let out involuntary screams as the razor wire shredded their skin.

"But it will all be pointless, in the end," he said, extending his other wrist behind him and letting three tiny daggers fly into Fang's chest, the very moment he raised himself up off the ground…and forcing Fleur, who'd been trying to help him up, to stumble backward. "One way or another, Griff of the London Clan _will_ die. You can no more deny this fact, than deny the rising of the sun."

"Funny turn of phrase there, considering who you're trying to off!" Griff exclaimed with stark-white eyes, as he took advantage of the old man's momentary distraction to tackle him to the ground. Momentum carried them several feet, freeing Arthur from his hold.

With no other weapons available to him, the gargoyle knight resorted to pummeling Hassan's face with his fists, putting all the strength he had left into each blow. Cuts and bruises appeared all over the tanned, leathery skin.

But throughout all this, the assassin's expression never once changed. Instead, looking up at the furious gargoyle, he simply smiled and asked politely, "Are you finished?"

Then, though Griff was careful to keep him pinned down hard enough that he couldn't wield his scimitar, Hassan managed to contort his other arm in a manner that didn't seem physically _possible._ That arm sunk into Griff's abdomen.

A moment later, he coughed out a mouthful of blood.

"Sir Griff!" cried Arthur, as the fingers of his non-dominant hand closed around Excalibur.

Hassan kicked the London gargoyle away, and he stumbled back, scarlet liquid flowing copiously from his stomach as he clutched at the wound. The cause was immediately evident: a small, wrist-mounted blade which'd emerged from Hassan's sleeve, and which was now dripping with Griff's blood and offal.

"The very first lesson I teach all of my students," he said coolly. "_Always_ have a hidden blade."

Ignoring his own pain, Arthur limped forward, so he could catch Griff before he fell. Rare tears welled up in the timeless king's eyes.

"This…This cannot be…" he whispered, overcome with sudden emotion. "Merlin! Merlin, you must…!"

But that's when he realized his wizard was nowhere to be seen.

Hassan, too, looked as if he'd managed to lose track of the magician in all the confusion. His eyes darted carefully around the auditorium, searching through the darkness.

Then, in a low voice, he muttered to himself, "No…the trick cannot possibly be _that_ simple…"

With the same lightning-quick reflexes as before, he gripped his scimitar and slashed at the drawn-back stage curtains. They fell away.

…Revealing a Merlin whose eyes burned blue with power, and whose beard, hair, and robes all crackled with the energy of a spell in process.

When his lips opened, his voice came out as a deep, echoing rumble.

"**Sorry, Griff. Had to let you get injured first, or this wouldn't work nearly as well.**"

[-]

Hassan's hands were inside his robes in an instant.

"I should warn you, archmagus. I come equipped with numerous iron armaments," he said. For the very first time, however, they could hear the slightest note of alarm in his voice. "Against a halfling such as yourself, their effects can be…_unpredictable._ But if you intend to cast a Third Race spell…"

"**Oh, it'd definitely kill me right now. It's sort of what I'm banking on.**"

The assassin grimaced, before settling on a weapon from his unseen armory – a short length of iron chain. "I'll bind you, then," he threatened. "Interrupt whatever it is you intend to cast."

"**Well…you can certainly **_**try.**_** But good luck looping that around me without any of **_**them**_** kicking your sorry arse.**"

Hassan chanced a short glance backward, and saw Arthur, Fleur, Hunter, and Fang arrayed in formation – all of them injured and severely fatigued, but nonetheless still standing. The only ones still hanging back were Yama, who was tending to the similarly wounded Griff, and Dingo…

Who'd just managed to get a grip on the electrified net holding down Matrix with insulated gloves. With a great, agonizing heave, he tossed it into the stands.

"Shoulda taken a page from yer musclehead mate, coppah," he told Hassan, as the AI sprung to life and began flowing across his skin, taking armor form once more. "Least his weapon made Matrix here _stay_ down."

The assassin was forced to split his attention, however – and his guard – as Merlin began speaking again.

"**Oh, and as for the spell itself…good luck interrupting **_**this**_** one.**"

He only had a split-second to respond, and in all fairness, Hassan was _almost_ in time. He cocked his wrist back and moved to toss the chain like a lasso…

But before he could, Merlin began to chant, and the shockwaves from the sheer magic power being released were enough to throw Hassan off his feet.

"_**By my acceptance, am I consigned**_

_**Unto another's fate designed**_

_**Forever, so shall I be bound**_

_**And unto me, his very pain resound!**_"

The energy fell away as suddenly as it appeared, as if a great windstorm had been snuffed out in an instant.

Then, abruptly, Merlin collapsed to his knees, clutching at his stomach.

"Archmagus…" said Hassan, his eyes wide with uncharacteristic shock. "What have you done?"

"What's it…look like…?" replied Merlin, and despite the obvious pain he was in, his voice rang with triumph. "Linking Spell…but just…one way. Anything you do…to Griff…I'll feel too. And…if you _do_ manage…to slay him…"

"We'll kill the wizard Merlin as well. And all our efforts to preserve you and Arthur for the coming battle will have been for nothing," Hassan finished for him. "You've turned _yourself_ into his inexorable shield."

Then, he did something none of them were expecting. He _laughed,_ a warm, genuine chortle.

"Oh, well done, well _done!_ You – _all_ of you – have vastly exceeded my expectations. I didn't think it was possible to underestimate King Arthur and his allies, but clearly I was mistaken," he remarked, sounding remarkably unbothered by the complete dissolution of all his careful plans. "Duval won't be pleased, but at least we've gained valuable insight this night. One's _true_ character, after all, is invariably revealed when they confront the specter of death. And yours are _magnificent._"

Arthur, however, was barely listening. He caught his teacher as he had his knight, letting the wizard rest his exhausted body in his arms.

"Merlin, are you…?" he began, worry dripping from his voice like a solid mass, though the mage waved it away.

"I'll be fine…so long as…he is…" said Merlin, through heavy, heaving breaths. He gestured weakly toward Griff, who was being propped up by Yama. "I did…what had…to be done. So Wart…time for you…to do the same…"

The king's grip around Excalibur tightened. He nodded once, solemnly.

Then he turned to face Hassan once more.

"All of you who can still fight," he called out. "Assemble at my side. We bring this villain to justice, once and for all."

But the smile didn't fade from the master assassin's face. Indeed, if anything, it grew larger.

"Oh, I think not. I have no intention of facing capture now – or _worse,_ if I'm right about who you answer to, dear Ms. Canmore," responded Hassan. "I could escape, of course, but really…what an utter waste of time. I think we've all got _far_ more important things we could be doing."

"We innae giving yeh a _choice,_ maerderer. Now drop yuir weapons, and put yuir hands up. _Now,_" Hunter ordered, taking aim with a gun she'd "borrowed" from Dingo, after losing or breaking all of her own. He did a double-take within his silvery helmet, but didn't say anything.

Hassan, meanwhile, looked upon her with a glint of bemusement. Then, wordlessly, he began to comply, letting his scimitar clatter to the stage's surface as he raised both arms into the air.

"You know, I meant it. When I told you this wasn't personal," he said loudly, tilting his head in the direction of Griff and Yama. "The idea of killing gargoyles is…never easy. I've done it before, of course – many, _many_ times. But I regret every single one. Yours is a race that has always been dear to my heart."

"Oh, _spare_ me," spat Griff, through another mouthful of blood. "I've heard the same, from any number of men like you. Never seems to stop the bleeding massacres."

"Ah, but you see, I speak from experience. It might surprise you to learn that many of my first _Hashashin_ were of your kind," explained Hassan. His expression had turned almost wistful. "You know, you remind me of her, in a way. The same fierce loyalty, the same indomitable spirit…"

He let out a short sigh. "A teacher never forgets his students. And a father never forgets his children," he added in a whisper. "And I consider myself both, above all. So for _their_ sake, I'm afraid I must now take my leave."

A small pellet, which he'd managed to hide between his fingers, tumbled to the ground. Thick smoke, like that Chiyome had used to conceal herself, spread out across the stage.

Unlike in that fight, however, they now had Matrix on their side. The AI quickly morphed an appendage like a vacuum cleaner, and sucked away the black mist.

But the Old Man of the Mountain was nowhere to be seen.

[-]

**Place de l'Opéra**

**September 30, 2000**

When the heroes emerged from a side-exit of the Palais Garnier, it was just after midnight. Despite this, the streets outside were still abuzz with activity.

Sitting at the juncture of no less than seven major roadways, the square outside the opera house was bustling with traffic from feet, cars, and buses. Every direction they turned, people were enjoying Paris' thriving nightlife – chatting, dining, singing drunkenly and off-key.

It was actually rather a good thing that there were _so_ many people about, because it allowed them to blend into the general hustle and bustle as they made their escape.

And considering their plate armor, weaponry, and general injuries – not to mention the fact that among them were two gargoyles, a furry mutate, and a gleaming robotic construct – they needed all the help they could get to avoid standing out.

Thankfully, this particular side-entrance to the building was bereft of activity, save for a blonde girl and one with purple streaks in her hair, who were canoodling at a nearby lamppost. They were far too focused on each other to notice anything else, however, so Arthur and his allies deftly snuck past.

At Hunter's silent signal, they ducked into a nearby alleyway in order to regroup. Matrix, who was supporting the two critically injured gargoyles, as well as the mage who'd taken on the pain from one of them, deposited all three softly on the ground.

"Whelp…that was a fun waste of time. Who's up for Chinese?" asked Fang, who slumped back against a wall, catching his breath.

"Fantômas and his allies may still remain at large…but we gained a great deal of intel on the enemy. I winnae call that a waste," said Hunter, whose exhaustion was equally evident, even if she hid it a bit better. "And it's always an honor tae fight beside yeh, Yuir Majesty."

"The honor is mutual, Lady Canmore. Indeed, if I may be so bold, I should like to invite you to sup with me for the Mass of Christ this year," replied Arthur. Both she and Dingo raised their eyebrows at him, causing the king to cough. "_Ahem_…I do not wish to give you a mistaken impression. I have extended similar invitations to Goliath and Macbeth, as well as young Lord Dugan of Ireland. I am unsure if you…"

"We've met, actually," Dingo cut him off. "Body-jumpin' sorcerers, crazed clones, little wooden gremlin things…that one had it all."

"I'll, err…haftae think about it," Hunter answered evasively, not making eye contact with the timeless king. Instead, she pulled out a small communicator at her hip. "In any event, we'd best be off. Been far too long since I last checked in."

"Your problem, sweet-cheeks, not ours," drawled Fang; he received a kick in the ribs from Yama for the comment, which was all the more impressive given that Yama could barely move. "Ey, ey! I ain't wrong, am I? Debbie Harry's the only one who actually _talks_ to the big boss man. Why should _we_ care if she gets in hot water with him?"

"**WE ARE ALL COMPATRIOTS IN THE PURSUIT OF LAW AND ORDER. A LESSON ONLY MORE ACUTELY FELT IN THE AFTERMATH OF THIS LATEST MISSION,**" said Matrix. "**HOWEVER, HUNTER…WE DO AGREE THAT IT MIGHT BE MORE CONDUCIVE TO THAT PURSUIT, IF WE WERE MADE PRIVY TO CERTAIN DETAILS YOU HAVE CONTINUED TO OBSCURE.**"

"We can…talk about this later," she muttered to her squad, her face turned in the opposite direction. "Yama, can yeh walk?"

"With difficulty…yes," breathed the Japanese gargoyle, as he stumbled unsteadily to his feet. "At least…until we reach the helicopter…"

"Are you sure you don't need any more help?" asked Fleur, her expression furrowing with concern.

Dingo, however, politely shook his head. "Appreciate the offer, sheila, but I think it's best we take it from here," he responded, before hooking a thumb in gesture to Griff and Merlin, who both looked in far worse shape than the Redemption Squad's own gargoyle. "'Sides…think ya got enough on yer own plate fer now."

"You may be right about that," she admitted in a quiet voice. Then, more loudly, she addressed the rest of their well-met allies. "My ex-husband declared you all foes after the battle at Eastcheap. And I often say you can tell a lot about a person by the enemies they make. I look forward to the next time we cross paths."

"Going by history, safe bet we won't have to wait _too_ long," said Fang, offering Fleur and the rest a mocking salute. "Smell ya later, Flying Circus!"

Those were the last words spoken by the members of the Redemption Squad, before they retreated down a side-street; Matrix having transformed into a set of silvery cloaks that, while hardly inconspicuous, were still less so than a _tengu_ and a cougar-man.

The moment they faded from sight, Arthur and Fleur were seizing upon their incapacitated companions. Both were breathing uneasily, while the inexpert dressings Fleur had applied to Griff's wound following the battle were already soaked through with blood.

"That was foolhardy in the extreme, my teacher," Arthur chastised, frowning at the clear distress both of them were in – one genuine, and one phantom. "I am glad that the tact appears to have been effective, but…"

"You had no guarantee that bloke wouldn't just decide to let us _both_ kick it," Griff finished for him, wincing at a renewed spike of pain that sent both of them gasping for air. "I…I mean…_why_ would you…?"

This time, Merlin cut them both off, tapping his staff sharply against the cold alley ground.

"We can…discuss this…another time…" he said, between ragged breaths. "For now…I need…to heal this injury. But with us…connected…in a single magical circuit…"

He was forced to pause for a violent, ugly coughing fit.

Merlin had to inhale deeply a few more times before he was able to continue, "The feedback…will likely…knock us both out. We'd be…completely helpless. Wart…can you…make it back…to the manor…?"

"Don't worry," Fleur told them, before Arthur could say anything. "That part, _I've_ got covered."

She held up her LexPhone so the others could see. On its screen was displayed a map of Paris, with their current location displayed as a blinking yellow light.

A moment later, a rush of wings could be heard overhead. The moonlight streaming down upon them was briefly blocked as three more figures touched down into the alleyway.

"Soho Cab Service, how many in your party?" asked Lunette, as she, Liam, and Kelpie all stretched their wings. "Err…sorry, bad joke. I think Gnash is rubbing off on me."


	7. Epilogue: The Magician

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – Epilogue: The Magician**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

**Le Château de Macbeth, Paris**

**October 1, 2000**

"Alraeght lads, let's get this straight. Yeh heard everything aboot mae curse…aboot how it's left me sleepwalking fer naene hundred, faerty-three years…" said Macbeth, shaking his head in dismay. "An' yeh still did it _anyway?!_"

The humans in their party, plus Griff, were arrayed around Macbeth's drawing room table, in order to plan their next move. The former king had returned from America only hours earlier via red-eye, and had just endured a veritable torrent of information as they caught him up everything he'd missed.

"To be fair, there're a couple significant differences between the Linking Spell I cast, and the one that binds you and Demona," Merlin explained, though without a great deal of patience in his tones. "Ours is a one-way link, since Griff didn't consent to the compact. So no immortality. He dies, I die. But not vice-versa. Would've defeated the point otherwise."

"But dinnae that just make it _worse?_" demanded Macbeth, face buried in his hands.

"Well, sure, if the point was to preserve my own life. I don't get _anything_ out of this, unless I've really got a kink for feeling it every time Griff stubs his toe," answered the wizard. "Which, for the record…I do not."

"Then _why_ take such a risk?" Arthur asked, not for the first time. "If this spell is truly akin to the one crafted by the Weird Sisters…then is it not permanent?"

"Aer is that another difference from the two-way vaersion?" added Macbeth.

But Merlin just shook his head. "Nope, inherent to the nature of the spell. Couldn't remove it even if I wanted to," he said. "But you're missing the bigger picture if you're still asking _why_ I did this. You all heard Hassan: he wasn't going to stop. Griff, you would've spent the rest of your life dodging assassins left and right. Inevitably, one of them _would've_ succeeded. That's not a knock on you, by the way. No one can be on their guard _all_ the time."

"This was the only way to make certain they wouldn't try again," responded Fleur, nodding once. "Your logic is sound, _sorcier._ Although that introduces another complication."

"And what might that be?" murmured Griff, who'd been strangely quiet throughout this conversation.

"I have no doubt the order to eliminate you came directly from my ex-husband," she told the gargoyle. "And if there's one thing I know about Duval…it's how much he _hates_ to lose."

[-]

**Castle Carbonek**

**October 1, 2000**

A set of fine dishware crashed against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces.

"This should've been simplicity itself," Duval ranted bitterly. "Just kill _one_ gargoyle. One! And now, not only does he still live…but we'll have to pull our punches in _every_ fight he's involved in from now on! It'd be a fine mess if he takes a blow that causes Merlin's old heart to give out…"

The view screens circling the table, four of which were currently lit – Quincy had urgent business to attend to at the White House – all regarded him with varying degrees of bemusement.

"Personally, I think you're taking this far too negatively," said Tamora the Goth, a lilting smile on her face as she sipped from a goblet of wine. "Look on the bright side: we learned more about the combat abilities of Arthur and his allies than in _any_ previous encounter. They probably didn't realize dear Fantômas records every last thing that transpires in his lair."

"Well, it _did_ serve as his prototype when he designed the Hotel Cabal," Mycroft Holmes pointed out, from behind a cloud of cigar smoke. "Ruthven and I are going over the tapes with a fine-toothed comb as we speak, just in case Pendragon let something slip here or there. Early results are…_promising._"

He pressed a button on his desk, and Arthur's sonorous voice began to ring out.

"_Still, this 'Project Orochi' you mentioned is certainly…_concerning._ And it tracks disturbingly closely with several other incidents observed in our journeys. But that is a discussion for another night."_

"I think you'll all agree it best we investigate the precise nature of these 'other incidents' sooner, rather than later," he added, after pausing the tape.

"Really, if he managed to survive against Hassan's best Assassins, then I think that only _further_ proof we should regard this 'Sir Griff' not as an opponent…but an opportunity," spoke Tenzin Chung, after a brief pause. "_The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting._"

"Don't quote Sun Tzu at me, Temüjin. I'm not in the mood," snapped Duval. "I'm glad you're all feeling so optimistic about this setback. Personally, I find it hard to see the silver lining in the gradual collapse of all our plans for Camelot's rebirth."

Mustapha Badroulbadour folded his withered hands together, letting the rings adorning each finger gleam bright.

"Let us face facts, old friend. We acted with rashness in this matter, and have suffered defeat accordingly," he said. "We should take this as a lesson in patience. The sands of fate shift unerringly in our favor, given the fullness of time. For is that not the nature of the Grail's blessing? To afford those best equipped to tend to the world's tender petals…the chance to witness them blossom?"

But Duval was only half-listening to the wizened sorcerer's words. Instead, his one organic eye went wide as he rounded on Mustapha, seizing on him like he was his very last hope.

"Aladdin, this is _your_ specialty. Third Race magic," he declared; he only used the mage's birth-name when things were truly serious. "Surely you can do _something_ to sever the link Merlin has established?"

The old man took a long, cold look at him through the screen. Then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing.

"Oh…Oh, you were serious! For a second there, Duval, I thought you'd actually developed a sense of humor," he replied, between hoarse chuckles. "Anyway, if you're asking whether I can dispel an enchantment cast by the son of Oberon himself, then the answer is a resounding 'No.' This is magic worlds out of _either_ of our leagues. The only people on Earth who might have the _slightest_ chance are Prospero – and you know how he can be – and of course…"

"Nimue. It's _always_ Nimue," growled Duval. "If nothing else, this debacle is proof that she _needs_ to be brought to heel. She must be reminded where she belongs."

"You can certainly _try._ But I wouldn't hold my breath," said Tamora. "Nimue may be a member of the Society, but she plays by our rules only when it suits her. And she's _hardly_ sociable. She never even shows up for Ladies Night! Well, except that one time…"

She paused, as another face came into her screen's frame – a diminutive, purple-skinned gargoyle, who seemed to be searching for something. She turned and offered him a dazzling smile, before tapping her empty wine glass with the side of her talon.

"Brentwood, would you be a dear and get me another? You know where Thailog keeps it," she asked him.

The clone gave her a long, unquestionably spiteful glare. Then, wordlessly, he swept up the glass and stormed away.

Tamora turned back to the camera, shaking her head – though more out of pity than genuine offense.

"He's been like that ever since I started visiting Nightstone regularly," she stated coolly. "Brilliant mind, truly, especially given his lack of formal education…but green eyes _really_ don't suit him."

"There is one other matter I feel we should discuss," interjected Mycroft, his tones making it clear he had little patience for the digression. "This makes over a dozen operations taken off-track thanks to the intervention of the so-called 'Redemption Squad.' It may be time to consider…_stronger_ measures."

"Agreed. Particularly if Quincy's theory holds true," said Tenzin. "If the Templars truly _have_ resurfaced…"

"I don't have enough fragments of chaos to answer one way or another with certainty," responded Mycroft. "But regardless who pulls their strings, they represent a wild card that's been played _far_ too often, as of late. New York, Paris, Ireland, Hokkaido…the list goes on."

"I have discussed this matter at length with Falstaff and Fiona Canmore," Duval told the others. "There are already plans in motion. Watson will be reaching out to you with details in the coming week, Mycroft."

There was no mistaking the sour look on the corpulent man's face, but his only reply was a toneless, "…Delightful."

Several moments passed in uncomfortable silence, before Tamora remarked, "Has anyone managed to get in touch with Hassan? He used Carbonek to both enter and depart Paris, correct?"

Duval nodded. "He boarded with Adam and Chiyome in tow. The latter was critically wounded. Were it not for the trace amounts of Grail water still in her veins, she would've almost certainly died," he explained. "I gave her a small supply of undiluted water to speed her recovery, and then dropped them at Alamut to recuperate. A full debriefing can wait until then."

A small smirk worked its way up Mustapha's leathery face.

"Well, would you look at that?" said the sorcerer. "Looks like he's still got a heart after all, underneath all that circuitry."

The cyborg affixed him with a scowl. "A purely pragmatic decision, I assure you," he returned testily. "Chiyome Mochizuki is one of our most valued operatives. She is _vital_ to our activities in Japan."

"I have need to visit Alamut in a few days, regardless. I…_arranged_ for a certain someone to train there last month, and I'd like to check in on her progress. Not that she has any idea I was the one responsible," offered Tenzin. "I'd be more than happy to sit down with Hassan then."

"Do it," Duval ordered, inclining his bald head to the warlord. "You have a better relationship with him than I do, anyway. It will probably sound better if you're the one who tells him."

Tenzin raised one, bushy eyebrow. "Oh? Tell him what, exactly?" he asked.

"What else?" answered Duval impatiently. "That he _failed._ That I expected more from him. That his high rank doesn't render him immune from consequences."

"Do as you will, my friend. But as I told you before, _I_ don't see it as a failure. Nor, I surmise, does Hassan," said Tenzin. "There's only one thing I expect he'll regret about how things turned out."

Duval let out a low groan. "Not _this_ again," he muttered. "It's a hopeless distraction, a fool's errand. He should've given it up _centuries_ ago."

"That's easy for you to say, Duval," said Mustapha, something dark brimming just beneath the surface of his cloudy eyes. "You've never been a father."

[-]

**Alamut, Iran**

**October 1, 2000**

The first thing Chiyome realized as she stirred was that she wasn't in any pain.

Given that she'd taken a direct hit from a katana straight across her chest, this was something of a surprise. Cautiously, she flipped aside the sheets covering her body.

She was wearing neither her jumpsuit nor her _miko_ robes; instead she'd been slipped into soft, comfortable white robes. The slash wound had almost completely faded away, leaving only the smallest of scars, directly between her breasts.

"Odds of that happening naturally can't be too high," rumbled a voice from just out of sight. "Sometimes I think the cup has a sense of humor. And not a very pleasant one."

Chiyome turned over in her bed, knowing who'd spoken before setting eyes upon him. "Prometheus-san," she said, a bit lamely. "You're awake."

The muscular creature was perched upon a chair that seemed ill-designed to support his weight, his own innumerous wounds likewise mended. She had vague recollections of her sensei tipping cool, clear liquid down her throat, right before she lost consciousness; Adam, then, must've been gifted the remainder.

"My metabolism far exceeds that of any naturally born human," he explained to her. "My system flushed out the toxin without too much issue. After that, there wasn't much to do but wait for yours to do likewise."

"I appreciate it," she replied, sincerely. "I assume you're the one who changed me as well?"

He inclined his head. "I seemed the natural choice. I don't experience sexual attraction to your kind, after all," he spoke, his words devoid of any real inflection or emotion. "Though I had to cut you out of your suit. I'm afraid it was beyond salvaging."

Chiyome waved off the concern. "Oh, I have a dozen more just like it at home. And it's not like it's exactly the height of fashion," she told him with a small laugh. "Where's Fantômas-san, by the way?"

Adam crossed his meaty arms, his expression darkening at the mention of the masked criminal.

"Gone, like so much wind. As he is wont to do," he said. "No doubt that as we speak, he now wears a different face. Speaks with a different voice. Even _attempting_ to track him is an exercise in futility."

"I suppose I can't argue with that," murmured the _kunoichi,_ her tone also shifting as she broached an even more sensitive topic. "And…our sensei?"

The creature's face was an impassive wall. He intoned only, "With her."

Chiyome nodded once, understanding immediately.

In lieu of anything else to do, she carefully moved to slip out of bed, her arms spread out for balance. She still managed to stumble as she tried to put weight on her feet, but Adam reached out and held her steady.

"It's been so long since I've been here at Alamut. The uniform's changed," she remarked, glancing toward another set of stark-white robes folded neatly in the corner.

Judging from that, and the accoutrements on the bedside table – including several pieces of jade jewelry and a photograph of two smiling women, one with Chinese features and one with sunken eyes and dirty-blonde hair – she was recuperating in some young recruit's dorm room.

"Yes, it's certainly a change from the 'be one with the shadows' attire I recall," Adam agreed. "Of course, I never wore any of it. They could never make the robes in my size."

Her lip curled upward. "You know, I don't see why you hide yourself away in Holmes-san's little gentlemen's club all the time," said Chiyome, as he helped her to stand up fully. "You're really quite the charmer when you put in a little effort, Prometheus-san."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about," was his stoic response, and for the life of her Chiyome couldn't begin to tell whether or not he was playing with her.

Deciding not to dwell on it too much, the _kunoichi_ stretched her limbs, demonstrating surprising limberness for someone who'd just spent over twenty-four hours in bed.

"Well, I'll need to be getting back to the shrine pretty soon," she lamented with a sigh; much as she enjoyed her cover as a _miko,_ there was no question it rather limited her freedom of movement. "But before we depart…care to take a tour around the old 'alma mater'?"

"I have never been a tremendous fan of looking back on past glories," answered the creature. But then, to Chiyome's surprise, his heavily lined face contorted into a rare smile. "Still…I suppose I could spare a few minutes."

[-]

**Le Château de Macbeth, Paris**

**October 1, 2000**

It was a few hours later that the "planning committee" broke up, Arthur and Fleur both following after Macbeth as he led them to his hovercraft.

"Cannae decide if mae adventure teh return the artifact was maer _aer_ less excitin' than yers," he said as they walked. "On the one hand, no vicious assassins on mae tail; no robot army teh fight. On the other, we…_may,_ have almost ended the waerld? Long story, but t'was a near miss. _Really_ lucky we happened teh run inteh the Maza lass' sister when we did…"

Merlin would've definitely wanted to hear more of _that_ story, but he was held back by the gentle but firm claw of Griff, which fell upon his shoulder.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked. "In private?"

The wizard frowned, but gestured to the nearby veranda with his staff. The pair walked out into the cold night air, and Griff leaned against the railing – which, thankfully, looked inward to the rest of Macbeth's property, rather than out into the street.

He'd just learned, _very_ thoroughly, that Paris was just like London or New York: a city that never slept.

"Well, gargoyle," muttered Merlin, after a few moments had passed in uncomfortable silence. "Out with it."

"Look, I…_get,_ why you did what you did. From a purely pragmatic standpoint," said the gargoyle, choosing his words carefully. "Don't mean to sound braggy, but…"

"But you understand your importance to what Wart is building in this new world. Beyond the not-inconsiderable skills you bring in terms of battle prowess and tactics," the mage finished for him. Neither of them was looking at the other, but instead toward the twinkling sky. "You're a _symbol,_ Griff, whether you like it or not. The First Knight he chose upon reawakening. When he chooses more – and he will – it'll be you they look to for guidance."

"No pressure, eh?" replied Griff, shifting uneasily. "There's a reason I never went for clan leader, or even Second. I'd like to think I'm a damn fine warrior…but I'm a follower, not a leader."

"Scrawny little boy who was apprenticed to me said the same thing, once or twice," Merlin stated pointedly. "Then he pulled out a sword to help his foster-brother, and the rest was history."

That brought the gargoyle to silence once again. He tapped a talon against the metal railing, mulling over how best to put this.

Eventually, he whispered, "You've taken on a helluva burden here, wizard. Something that'll last _forever._ Well…until I bite it, anyway. Which only makes it _worse._ How can I go out and risk my life every night, knowing that any hits I take'll go straight to Arthur's beloved teacher?"

"Same way you can risk your life, knowing the blows are going at his beloved _knight,_" said Merlin. "Seriously, he loves you, Griff. In a way I haven't seen him love a knight since Lancelot."

He shrugged a shoulder, before adding glibly, "Bright side, you're a _lot_ less likely to sleep with his wife."

Griff let out a sigh and shook his head. "Glad to see you're taking this so seriously," he returned.

At this, Merlin finally turned to face the gargoyle knight, his silvery hair and beard shimmering beneath the moonlight.

"What's done is done. I did what was necessary to safeguard Wart's dream, and the people he cares about – and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, if I had to," he told Griff firmly. "Only thing I ask in return is that, if you should ever come to a similar choice…you'll do the same."

"If it's for the sake of my liege…" answered Griff, nodding his head. "Then I would move the Earth and skies. He only needs to ask."

The wizard returned his nod, folding his wrinkled hands across his staff. After a few moments, he asked, "Is that all, then? Because I feel like whatever nonsense Macbeth just got up to _probably_ requires follow-up."

Griff's talons tensed around the railing. While Merlin was now facing toward him, _his_ eyes still remained fixed resolutely upon the stars.

"Just one more thing. And this is the hardest part," he said. "So…I'll just go ahead and spit it out. _Thank you,_ Merlin. For saving my life."

Merlin shrugged again, his demeanor cool and indifferent. But his murmured response was, "And thank _you,_ Sir Griff. For living a life worth saving."

He didn't wait around to see what effects, if any, these words had on the beaked gargoyle. Instead he began heading for the roof, where Macbeth's hovercraft was parked.

To get there from the veranda, the magician was required to climb a small ladder. Merlin exhaled deeply and moved to grasp the painted metal…

Only to realize there was a small scroll tied to one of the rails.

Frowning, Merlin picked up the scroll and unfurled it with a tap of his staff. Slowly, as he read the words etched upon its surface, his eyes began to widen.

There wasn't much written there; only a time and a place. But he recognized the handwriting immediately.

And the spell used to seal it was as good as any signature.

[-]

**Redemption HQ**

**October 1, 2000**

"So…Fantômas remains at large?" asked Dolores Herrera, over a secure line.

Robyn Canmore, her mask removed for the first time in days, slumped back in her chair and let out a deep, rattling breath.

"Aye," she said.

"And while you subsequently clashed with three other members of the Illuminati…" continued the Hispanic woman. "Each and every one managed to evade your capture as well?"

"Aye…" repeated Robyn.

"And on top of all _that,_ you returned to us with a team that has been – to a man – bruised, beaten, and/or impaled within an inch of their respective lives?" replied Dolores.

"Well, Matrix dinnae suffer any lasting harm. Though, err…I suppose that's teh be expected," Robyn told her, more than a bit awkwardly. "But otherwise…_aye._"

"I see…" muttered Dolores, her voice toneless and even. Over the phone, Robyn could hear the shuffling of papers around a desk.

After that, the line went silent for several moments. Then, the older woman came back on with an abrupt, "I have reviewed the report you sent extensively with the Director. He wishes to pass along his response."

Robyn winced, bracing herself for the inevitable castigation. What she wound up hearing, however, was a blunt, "Good job."

The squad leader raised an eyebrow. "I…must've misheard yeh," she said, shifting in her chair. "Because it _sounded_ like…"

"How one reacts to unexpected complications can be just as important as achieving a mission's primary objective," Dolores cut her off, clearly reading off of some kind of script. "You cannot be faulted for the scope of your assignment drastically shifting partway through. But you _can_ be commended for adapting to that shift with valor and diligence."

It was probably a poor idea, but Robyn couldn't help but ask, "And how muchae that d'yeh actually _believe?_"

The other woman paused, seeming to sincerely mull this over.

Finally, she responded, "Me? Perhaps…sixty percent, or so. But I've never personally been a supporter of what the Director calls the 'Redemption Initiative.'"

"I gathered as much," declared Robyn coolly. "But then, _why_ d'yeh stay involved with all this? There must be maer, err…_prestigious_ assignments."

This, Dolores answered without hesitation. "Because I owe everything to the man you call 'Sir.' And I don't think _either_ of us is going to abandon him before he sees his mission through to the end," she said, without offering an opportunity for Robyn to get a word in edgewise. "We'll be in touch. Until then, Ms. Canmore."

Robyn sat there for a few moments after the line went dead, mulling things over. Eventually, though, she pulled her mask back over her face, and strode back into the adjacent conference room.

"What's the word, sheila?" demanded Dingo, Matrix perched on his shoulder almost like a pirate's pet parrot. "We gettin' hung out ta dry, or not?"

But Hunter just walked right past him, telling her team as she did, "Everyone…take the restae the night off. We'll be back tae combat trainin' at sundown."

"Ooh, sweet! Break time!" exclaimed Fang, who was just returning from checking on Yama's recovery in the med room; another night of stone sleep had left him healed, but not whole. "Just one question. Who _are_ you, and what the hell've you done with Hunter?!"

The blonde woman slowly turned around, affixing Fang with a glare that immediately had him clam up.

Then, resuming her stride like she hadn't been interrupted, she said, "Yeh've all done good work the last few nights. Have some time teh yuirselves. And…treat it as if it's the last yeh may be getting in a while."

[-]

**Alamut, Iran**

**October 1, 2000**

"Yes, Father. Winter is progressing splendidly in her lessons," Hassan-i Sabbah spoke into a small transceiver. "Your plan has my approval. I'll ensure she's on the next flight back to the Vatican."

He paused for a moment, listening to the voice on the other end. Then, he let out a small chuckle.

"Of _course_ she's been getting along with her peers. Though I'm tickled at your concern," he added, happy to play the role of proud teacher. It was a role he found _infinitely_ more rewarding than that of assassin. "In fact…"

Hassan listened on, his acutely trained ears picking up the faint tremors of a clash several floors below.

"Sounds like she just ran into a couple of our esteemed alumni," he continued, after a brief pause. "If I had to hazard a guess, Mochizuki-san probably invited her to karaoke, and dear Winter pointed out the issues with that plan in her…_usual_ manner. Now, you had another matter you wished to discuss?"

The other speaker hesitated for a moment…then asked a question.

"Ah. I can see why you'd be curious about that," said Hassan, his jovial tone disappearing in an instant. "I'm sorry, Father, but as a Seventeen I'm afraid you're not cleared for details of that _particular_ operation. Suffice to say that it's being handled. I'm really more impressed that you know so much already – spies at Notre Dame, no doubt?"

The old man listened for a few more moments, nodding along, before he told the caller, kindly but firmly, "Then that concludes our business for this evening. I'm afraid I have other matters that need attending to."

Hassan hung up without waiting for a response. A bit rude, perhaps, but he hadn't been lying; there _was_ a great deal of work left to do, in the aftermath of the failed assassination.

He needed to round with Adam and Chiyome, for one thing – both to check on their condition, as well as ensure they had their stories straight before speaking with Duval. The cyborg wasn't known for his patience at the best of times, and he was surely _far_ from his best right now.

A call to Fantômas was probably also prudent. He'd aborted the hit on Dolores Herrera, which meant the next assignment on the masked thief's docket was the Star of Arabia. A jewel that, as fortune would have it, Fantômas had been ordered to steal from no less than twelve different owners in the past.

Of course, David Xanatos might well prove a trickier mark than some of the others. And if he or his "houseguests" should manage to thwart the theft…

Well, that'd be one more reason to put in the recommendation for him to be significantly _more_ than a Thirty-Six.

There were a number of more minor issues that needed addressing, mostly owing to the fact that this'd been his first absence from Alamut in over a century. He trusted in the discipline of his students, but it probably couldn't hurt to check in on them all the same.

Perhaps he was being overly paranoid, but there was a lot that could go wrong in just a couple of days. He was a worrier; came with the territory of being a teacher.

Hundreds of lives were in his hands – and at the ends of their blades, thousands more.

Case in point…

Hassan stopped in front of a nondescript, unlabeled door. From within his robes he fished out an old-fashioned, rusty key: the only one of its kind.

This was the one part of Alamut even more private than his personal chambers. No one else was allowed in. The musty smell and thick layer of dust over everything were proof.

Only one thing in the room was completely free of odors and grime, owing to the fact that he cleaned and polished it with his own hands, at least weekly.

At first glance, it was a statue, about a head taller than Hassan himself. It depicted a creature with a face simultaneously canine and avian, with great, voluminous feathered wings and three birdlike tails.

Of course, it was no more a statue than Hassan was a man innocent of bloodshed.

"Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost," he said to himself. "The first law of alchemy. I truly thought Mustapha might've been onto something there."

He ran a leathery hand across the organic stone. "The theory was sound. Spill the blood of a gargoyle in assassination…and use that blood in a rite to revive a gargoyle Assassin," he went on. "Was as good a plan as any. Nothing _else_ has worked, after all."

Hassan let out a deep, rattling breath.

"But you're in this state because of _my_ mistake, child. So I won't rest until I find a way to free you from this curse," he told her, kneeling at her side. "Even if it takes me _another_ seven centuries. If there's one thing I've never learned, in all my years as an educator…it's how to give up."

The Old Man of the Mountain sat there for some time, shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the first _Hashashin_ he'd ever taught: the gargoyle who'd been Second of Clan Alamut, frozen in stone by a magic spell for over seven hundred years.

A teacher wasn't supposed to play favorites. But Hassan had two, whom he loved like daughters – and in different ways, each was currently lost to him.

At least…for now.

"I _will_ save you. I swear it upon every life I've ever taken," he said. "My sweet child. My…_dear_ Simurgh."

[-]

**Le Panthéon, Paris**

**October 2, 2000**

The next night, at the appointed time, Merlin hobbled into an enormous mausoleum, his limbs and joints thoroughly exhausted from all the assorted running, fighting, and spellcasting he'd gotten up to in recent days.

Still, the sights that greeted him were enough to push a little thing like pain into the far recesses of his mind. After the kind of life _he'd_ led, there was very little capable of impressing the arch-wizard, but he had to admit the architecture of this "Panthéon" came closer than most.

Surrounding him on all sides were towering marble columns, grand statues of mythic figures, and immaculately carved friezes. Spanning just about each and every wall were murals of French history and legend, each scene stretching ceiling to floor.

Here, he knew – having done some brushing up after reading the note – were interred the remains of a number of esteemed French citizens, from Voltaire to Victor Hugo, Louis Braille to Pierre and Marie Curie.

As such, and unlike the suspiciously empty Palais Garnier, the building was swarming with night security. Thankfully, concealing himself from their sight was an elementary enchantment.

"I see we both had the same idea," came a young, feminine voice. "Of course, I've never had much trouble finding _you._ Though I'll wager you wish the reverse was equally true."

Merlin knew who'd spoken from the very first word. And yet, he could scarcely believe it was so until he turned around, and witnessed her approaching with his own two eyes.

"Nimue…" he whispered, his voice breaking progressively along each of the three syllables.

"Hello, old man," she said, walking straight past a guard like he wasn't there. "It's been a while. Longer for you than I."

She was as ethereal, enigmatic, and _infuriatingly_ beautiful as he remembered. Her skin, almost eerily pale, lay unblemished and untouched by the ravages of time. Shawls of silver and pale blue covered her from head to toe, shrouding her body from sight. Milky brown eyes, looking strangely plain amidst the frame of her other features, shined with unreadable emotion as she gazed upon him.

Nimue raised two, dainty hands to her neck, and used them to lower her shawl's hood. Merlin's brow rose as he saw that one aspect of her appearance _had_ changed greatly: her long, flowing hair, which'd once been the color of chestnuts, was now an otherworldly silver-white.

"You must have a thousand questions," she commented, after he'd been silent for several moments. "I'd suggest you get them all out of the way now. I don't intend to make it easy for you to find me again."

"I…don't even know where to begin," he told his former apprentice. "Why are you here? Why _now?_"

"Duval came to visit me a few nights ago. After reading the cards, I realized what he was up to. You know that divination's always been one of my specialties," said Nimue, matter-of-factly. As she did, she fished a single tarot card from within her sleeve and held it between two fingers: the first of the Major Arcana, _The Fool._ "Of course, everything worked itself out in the end, so there was no reason for me to intervene. But then I figured, so long as I was in town…"

Merlin, however, was only half-listening. His attention was instead captured by the card she was flashing – or rather, one of the fingers she was flashing it _with._

"That's the companion, isn't it?" he asked, pointing at the iron ring she wore, inset with a brilliant blue gemstone. "What you've been using to leech my magic for over fourteen _centuries._ You channeled it…into the deck I found in New Orleans. But _one_ of the cards was missing…"

She flicked _The Fool_ a couple of times. "Enough of your power for me to get by. Not that I really _need_ it anymore," she cut him off, confirming his theory with a nod. "I've gathered quite a bit of my own, over the years."

"All those days, trapped in that crystal prison…having my very _essence_ stripped away. Unable to see anyone, unable even to _waste away_ on my own merits, because any time I decided not to eat or sleep or drink the Cave would _force_ me to," Merlin ranted at her. "All that time I couldn't see or speak to you, but I could _feel_ your presence. Unending, crushing, stifling. Like I was a puppet in a dollhouse, living out a sick, twisted pantomime of life for your…_what?_ Entertainment?"

He clutched his fist so tightly around his staff that the knuckles turned white.

"The only thing that got me through those countless years…was dreaming of this moment," he continued, in a much lower voice. "The moment when I could ask you: _Why?_ Why did you betray me, Nimue? Why did you trap me in that accursed Cave?"

The sorceress turned partially away, so that he could only see half of her face. "I _told_ you why, the moment I tricked you," she said sternly. "I wanted your magic, so I _took_ it. Simple."

"You say that as if I haven't had a millennium and change to think about all the ways that makes _no_ sense," Merlin shot back. "If you wanted power from me, all you had to do was ask. I would've given anything, _sacrificed_ anything, for your sake. I…I _loved_ you, Nimue. I thought that you loved me, too."

"Exactly the problem…" mumbled Nimue, out the corner of her mouth. It didn't look like she even realized she'd said it out loud, until Merlin took a step forward.

"What was that?" he demanded. "What do you mean by 'problem'?"

Instinctively, she drew in on herself, avoiding the old mage's piercing gaze. "It's nothing," she answered, without any real conviction. "Look, we're wasting time. So why don't we return to the matter of…"

"Oooooooh _no,_ you don't! I did _not_ spend all that time stuck in a cell of Orichalcum to get rebuffed by such a naked lie," declared Merlin insistently. "You forget that I know all of _your_ tells, as well as you know mine."

A vein thundered in Nimue's temple, her expression shifting and contorting as she, very obviously, tried to tamp down on something she very much did _not_ want to say.

But in his memories from the fifth and sixth centuries, Nimue had never been particularly talented in constraining her emotions for long. And though this was clearly an older, wiser, more mature version of the sorceress…

There were some things that simply refused to stay buried.

"Fine, old man! _Fine!_" she shouted, their mutual enchantments preventing anyone else in the mausoleum from hearing them. "Do you _really_ want to know the reason why I trapped you in that Crystal Cave? You won't like the answer."

"Try me," said Merlin.

Nimue stared back at him for several moments, looking as if she already regretted sharing this much. But there was no backing out now, and she seemed to realize it.

So eventually, she turned her gaze downward and muttered, in a very small voice, "Because if I didn't…the Illuminati was going to do something _far_ worse."

A shadow fell over the magician's face. "It was an assignment?" he asked, mostly rhetorically. "Yes…probably the first one Percival ever gave you. Makes sense, I suppose – they're clearly intent on preserving Wart and I for the coming Cataclysm. Damned luck we both woke up two centuries too early. But even if that's the case…"

He pounded the shaft of his staff against the ground. "What could _possibly_ be worse than spending all that time as a prisoner?" he plead of her. "As _your_ prisoner?"

In answer to this question, however, Nimue simply looked straight at him and proffered her own: "Do you remember that afternoon by the lake? When I asked if a halfling could be forced into an Ascension Ritual?"

Merlin's staff very nearly clattered to the ground.

"You…You _cannot_ be serious…" he said, backing away a few steps. "Of course I remember. Do _you?_ Specifically, where my answer was an emphatic _no?_"

"And that's exactly what I passed along to Percival," responded Nimue. "But he seemed to think there might be a…_loophole,_ of sorts. That if the magician casting the spell was the holder of the target's heart…"

"Then you might be able to get around the ritual's consent requirement," Merlin finished the sentence for her, his voice dim and hollow. "Theoretically, it _could_ work. Of course…it could just as easily _kill_ the halfling in question."

"Precisely why I couldn't bring myself to do it. The risk was too great. And besides…" Nimue quietly explained. "You'd made it clear just how opposed you were to the very _idea_ of ascending. Of burning away your mortal half. That in a fundamental way, it might even be _worse_ than killing you…because you'd always be just a part of what you once were."

"And so, faced with the choice of leaving me to die, or violating my very humanity to preserve me…" the old wizard realized aloud.

"I chose a third path," said Nimue, this time with more self-assurance. "A path that, whatever tortures it put you through…would, in the end, leave you alive and whole. _You,_ Merlin. Exactly as Arthur would remember you. Exactly as you would _want_ to be remembered. And…"

She let out a deep, heavy breath, and her fingers absently fidgeted with the tarot card.

"_And_ I'd do this…knowing the consequences," she added, after a moment's hesitance. "_Knowing_ that you would hate me, in the end. _Knowing_ that you could never, ever forgive me. _Knowing_ that I would become the villain of your story. I knew these things, and I accepted them. Because you were worth _all_ of it."

"Nimue…" breathed Merlin, still trying to process everything he'd just heard. Yet, there was one thing he knew she _needed_ to be corrected on. "I…never hated you. _Could_ never hate you."

The sorceress gave a small, humorless laugh. "Oh, good try, you old bat," she stated dryly. "But I wasn't born yesterday. Of _course_ you hate me. Anyone would."

"I mean, don't get me wrong. I _resented_ you, with every fiber of my being. But mostly because of all the unanswered questions," he replied, taking a few careful steps forward. "Now, I _have_ those answers. And…well, you were right about one thing. I'm not ready to forgive you – not _yet._ But…I think perhaps I _could_ get there, one day. If you're willing to meet me halfway."

With every step he took toward her, however, Nimue backed away just as much. Still, seemingly to her own surprise, she wound up asking him, "What do you mean?"

"Come back to me. Come back to _us,_" he said. "I know Wart would be ecstatic to have you by his side again."

The sorceress looked absolutely incredulous. "You have…_no_ idea what you're asking," she murmured in response.

"Is this about the Illuminati? Because you _do_ realize we've got a former Three in our inner circle? Not exactly a dealbreaker," Merlin pointed out. "The way Fleur tells it, you're a Sixteen right now. Surely it wouldn't be too hard to cut ties _that_ tenuous."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," sighed Nimue, shaking her head back and forth. "Merlin, I stabbed you in the _back._ I lied, I cheated. And stealing away all that time from you was just the _start_ of my crimes. You think you know me, but you just remember the young girl that came to you with dreams of magic in her believing heart. Not the _witch_ she became."

"Obviously, you've…_changed._ In more ways than one," said Merlin, unable to keep his eyes from wandering to her blanched locks. "But you're Nimue inside. _My_ Nimue. I can see that now."

"You see _nothing!_" she suddenly roared, silencing the wizard. With shaking hands, she fished a small pendant from beneath her shawl. It seemed to be one of several, but there were too many fabrics in the way to make out the others. "Do you know what _this_ is?"

Merlin couldn't help but let out a small gasp. "That's the symbol of Setebos," was his whispered answer. "But why would you…"

"I had a lot of masters after you. This was just one of them," she told him, her face twisting into something like a smile, though there wasn't an ounce of joy in any of it. "Scholomance, class of 1452. Quite a nice group of graduates I damned myself alongside. Maybe you've heard of a few? Vlad Țepeș. Gerald FitzGerald. Sycorax. Mustapha Badroulbadour. Demona. Even Gilles de Rais, also known as…"

"Enough. I get the point," Merlin cut in, not wanting to hear any more.

"Do you? Because then you should realize that taking magic lessons from the closest thing to the _Devil Himself_ barely cracks the top ten on 'Worst Ways Nimue has Spent Eternity,'" she snapped back at him. She was clutching tightly at her shoulders, looking utterly mad. "Merlin, I told you already. I'm the _villain_ in this story. Which means, if you and Arthur are dead-set on being the heroes…"

Nimue pulled the hood back over her face, so that her eyes could no longer be seen.

"Then one day, we _will_ wind up facing one another," she said, her words turning solemn and morose. "And one of us _will_ fall."

Merlin turned askance. "You're being a stubborn fool," he grunted. "Something I know a thing or two about."

"Perhaps. But it's the only way I know how to live anymore," admitted Nimue, with a shake of her head. "Which brings us, neatly, to the one thing I wanted to ask _you._"

She held up _The Fool_ with her pointer finger, somehow perfectly balanced along a single corner. With her thumb, she sent it spinning, revolving hypnotically about an invisible axis.

But strangely, the face it showed each time it flipped around was not the same. Instead of the grinning, ignorant jester who set off on the journey of tarot, other images from the Major and Minor Arcana flashed instead, a new one with each rotation.

_The Emperor_

_The Magician_

_Justice_

_The Empress_

_The Tower_

_The Devil_

_Judgment_

_The Ace of Cups_

_The Ace of Cups_

_The Ace of Cups_

_The Ace of Cups_

Even though Nimue's eyes could no longer be seen, Merlin was certain she was affixing him with a soul-searing stare.

"I know what you and Arthur are planning. The only thing you _could_ be planning," she said.

Merlin watched on as the card continued to spin, now resolutely displaying only a golden goblet, five streams of water cascading from its overflowing center.

"I see no reason to deny it," he told her coolly. "Will you deny he lacks proper justification?"

"No. I suppose not," was Nimue's whispered reply. "Still, you should understand that if you go through with this…it _will_ make us enemies."

"But it doesn't _have_ to," insisted Merlin, attempting one last appeal. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. Can you honestly say your 'Society' stands for anything worthwhile at this point? That…_it_ still deserves to remain in Percival's sullied hands?"

"I can say very few positive things about Duval. Trust me, I'm under no illusions on _that_ score," she declared. The tarot card's movements were beginning to slow, so with a flick of the wrist, she slipped it back into her sleeve. "But this _isn't_ about him. Or you, or me…or even Arthur himself."

"Who, then?" asked Merlin.

But she offered no answer – only a single, brief shake of the head.

Instead, she reached one last time into the folds of her shawl – and from its depths, produced a small, wooden casket.

"The next time we face each other, Merlin…it will be on the field of battle. And I will not hold back," she said. "But until then, if you are _truly_ serious about pursuing this path…then you'll need something like this."

Merlin slowly took the box with aged, calloused hands, and with a whispered spell, opened it just a fraction of an inch. Despite its plain exterior, a golden glow blanketed his face as its contents were revealed.

"This is…" he muttered, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

"You wouldn't _believe_ the trouble I had to go through to get my hands on it," remarked Nimue, who was now facing completely away from him. "Consider it a final gift, from your most…_troublesome_ student."

It was clear the sorceress meant those to be her parting words. But she'd barely taken a single step away before he called out, "Wait."

"Oh, what is it _now,_ you daft old…" she began, turning back in spite of herself – only for the resealed casket to be pressed into her hands.

"It's a tempting offer. _Believe_ me," said Merlin. "There aren't two of these in the entire _world._ No question it'd solve a load of problems along the way. And…that's precisely the problem."

Nimue just stood there, incredulous, looking as if her former teacher had grown a second head.

"But that's the nature of the Quest," he went on, inclining his head gravely. "No outside interference or assistance. We succeed, or fail, on the merits of Arthur's own heart – and those of the men, women, and gargoyles he chooses to join him. A group you've made _very_ clear you won't be a part of."

The silver-haired seer shifted the position of her head slightly, so that beneath her hood, a single, solitary eye was visible. One of deep, earthy brown – precisely the same shade that King Arthur happened to possess.

"Ironic to hear those words from you, old man. You were singing a different tune the last time around," she reminded him. "You called the first Quest 'a bloody distraction from vital affairs of state,' as I recollect."

Merlin let out a quick, mirthless snort of a laugh. "Yes, well. We heard a bard on the radio in New Orleans who put it best, I think," he said. "How'd it go? Ah…right, that was it. _I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now._"

There was a short beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Nimue broke into her own spurt of laughter – and for the first time that night, for the briefest of moments, it was a genuine.

"I knew it," she whispered, mostly to herself. "I _knew_ you would love Dylan."

But the moment was over as abruptly as it came. Nimue pulled her hood back into place, the casket disappearing back into her shawl as she did. Then, with purposeful strides, she began to slip away.

"Goodbye, Emrys," were the only words she had left to offer. It was the first time she'd used that name in millennia.

This time, the wizened magician didn't call out for her to stop. But his lips did part, and he did utter one more thing, in tones that reverberated throughout the mausoleum – though she was the only person capable of hearing them.

"I'm not giving up on you," was what he said, with all the conviction he could muster.

Nimue paused mid-step, now far enough away that her shimmering cloak was a tiny star, amidst a sea of darkness.

"I knew you wouldn't," she murmured back.

And then, she was gone.

**NEVER THE END…**

[-]

_The story will continue in…_

Gargoyles: Pendragon

"The Quest for the Holy Grail"

By **Gryphinwyrm7**


	8. End Credits

_**Gargoyles – Assassins – End Credits**_

_Disclaimer: In case you haven't figured it out yet, I don't own Gargoyles. All Gargoyles-related characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of Disney, Greg Weisman, and Frank Paur._

[-]

_Featuring the voice talents of…_

**Tom Baker – **Mycroft Holmes

**Jim Belushi – **Fang

**Jeff Bennett – **Matrix, Vinnie Grigori, Texan Tourist

**Steve Blum** – Fantômas, Bellboy

**Peter Capaldi – **Merlin, "Merlin"

**Jim Cummings – **Dingo

**Neil Dickson – **Sir Griff

**Sheena Easton – **Hunter, Tour Guide

**Oded Fehr – **Hassan-i Sabbah

**Miguel Ferrer – **Tenzin Chung/Temüjin

**Ralph Fiennes – **Lord Ruthven

**Morgan Freeman – **Quincy Hemings

**Georgie Henley** – Lunette

**Kate Higgins – **Madame Serena/Nimue, Flight Attendant

**Stana Katic** – Tamora the Goth, "Landlady"

**Wendee Lee – **Chiyome Mochizuki, Dolores Herrera

**Eddie Marsan** – Duval

**Rhona Mitra** – Queen Blanchefleur, "Fleur"

**John Rhys-Davies – **Macbeth

**Patrick Seitz – **Adam Prometheus

**Alexander Siddig – **Mustapha Badroulbadour

**John St. Ryan – **King Arthur Pendragon

**Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa** – Yama

**Kari Wahlgren** – Samantha Clemens, Simurgh

_This story is dedicated to our fair lady, the venerated Notre Dame de Paris. We will rebuild, and we will thrive._

_Special thanks to my learned colleagues in the _**Age of Gargoyles**_ Community. Their support is the main thing that drives me to shoot for greater and greater heights as I contribute to this grand, sprawling saga._

_Check out the latest from the newly rechristened _**Dr. Algae –** "Heroes of Ulster: Bad Blood,"_ as well as his upcoming tale, _"Holidays."

_Check out the latest from _**GregX** – "Aftermath," _as well as his upcoming tale,_ "Foxhunt."

_And last but certainly not least, check out the latest from _**Gryphinwyrm7** – "Pendragon: Prey,"_ and witness as this story continues in our grandest epic yet…_

"The Quest for the Holy Grail"


End file.
